The Puppet and the Penguin
by RapidEyeMovement
Summary: Formerly titled "All Men Cast a Shadow" - With two new crime bosses competing for control of Gotham City, Batman must infiltrate the criminal underworld itself to bring down both the Penguin and Scarface.
1. Voices

ALL MEN CAST A SHADOW

**Foreword:** Although it is NOT a direct sequel, this story follows on from my two previous Bat-fics _Shiver_ and _The Terror That Came to Gotham_ and there are references to them throughout. It is perfectly possible to read this story without reading the other two. _(See "The Story So Far" below for more info) _Also, before anyone says anything: I am well aware that in the comics the Penguin's surname is Cobblepot, but I have changed it to Cobb in this story because I think it fits in more with the Nolanverse. Just imagine Christian Bale saying "Cobblepot" in his Batman voice and you'll see where I'm coming from.

**The Story So Far:** Batman, along with Commissioner Gordon and new ally Lt. Harvey Bullock, put a stop to Dr. Victor Fries and his cold-hearted quest for vengeance just in time to defeat the dangerously delusional Jervis Tetch, AKA the Mad Hatter, who lost his grip on reality in a twisted search for love.

Then, whilst investigating the murders committed by master-of-disguise Clayface, Bruce Wayne found himself falling for beautiful actress Julie Madison, only to see her brutally killed by Clayface, who was in fact veteran actor Basil Karlo. Shortly afterwards, Karlo himself mysteriously disappeared…

* * *

**PROLOGUE**

They were fighting again.

Arnold sat on the stairs, having being lured down from his slumber by the sound of his mother and father arguing loudly.

They thought that Arnold couldn't hear them when they argued in the kitchen, but the hard, solid walls only served to muffle their angry voices.

Sometimes they fought about Arnold.

He didn't quite know what his father did for a living, but Arnold knew it must be something important, because he wore such good suits and drove a real nice car and sometimes he could be gone for a long time and Arnold's mother would worry. Arnold knew that one day, he'd be just like his father; good suits and nice cars. Sometimes his father would bring friends home from work and they wore good suits too, but they never talked about what they did and his mother didn't seem to like them very much.

Sometimes his father would tell Arnold stories about people like Al Capone and John Dillinger, people he had looked up to when he was Arnold's age. They sounded magnificent to young Arnold: all honour and class; guardians of their own; answering to no-one and uncompromising in their beliefs. They took what they wanted when they wanted and never looked back.

Arnold's mother didn't like this either. She would tell him stories too, about her father, who had been a ventriloquist in a travelling vaudeville show. Arnold didn't know what any of that meant, but his mother got so happy when she talked about it. Sometimes she would get sad though; like when she said that she missed the laughter and joy of those days.

His mother had given Arnold his grandfather's old ventriloquist dummy, which was named Woody. At first Arnold was a little scared of the small, wooden figure, dressed in a garish tartan jacket and polka-dot bowtie like some mockery of a human being, but he had eventually warmed to it like a new toy and constant companion.

But his mother had treated it with such importance. It was no mere toy, and she had told him as much. She had taught Arnold how to make Woody talk in a special way that meant his lips didn't move but the dummy's did. This newfound skill had thrilled young Arnold and his mother hoped that it might dissuade him from following in his father's footsteps.

This difference of opinion as to Arnold's future was sometimes the reason they argued so much. But sitting on the stairs now, clutching Woody to his side, he didn't think they were fighting about him this time.

"The job went wrong and now we need to leave!" his father's voice yelled through the drywall.

"Why? What do you mean 'went wrong'?" his mother's voice yelled back, unaware of their little eavesdropper.

"Just… Just get Arnie and come to the car." His father's voice sounded scared. Arnold had never heard his father scared before.

"Alan, what's wrong? Tell me what happened?" Now his mother's voice sounded scared too.

There was a bit of quiet before his father's voice said, "It was a hit, May, but it went wrong and they seen my face… They're gonna be sending somebody…"

His parents' voices continued to argue, but quieter now. Arnold turned to look at Woody's blank and unmoving features. Although the carved and painted wood yielded no emotion, Arnold sometimes liked to imagine that Woody was real and had a life of his own.

"Wonder what they're fighting about this time," Arnold said to his inanimate friend.

_"Geats me,"_ he said in Woody's voice, making sure to manipulate the dummy's mouth in time with the words whilst keeping his own lips and jaw as still as possible. Just like his mother had taught him. He still made "G" sounds instead of "B" sounds, but he was working on it.

Suddenly, Arnold heard the sound of the kitchen door crashing open.

"Jesus, no!" his father's voice shouted, now terrified.

"Please!" his mother's voice cried.

Curious, Arnold left his perch and made his way slowly towards the kitchen, dragging Woody by the hand.

"Listen, whatever they're paying you, I'll double it!" said his father's voice.

Arnold quietly opened the kitchen door, just a crack, and saw a strange man in black clothes standing in the kitchen with his parents.

The stranger simply lifted his arm, holding a long, cruel chunk of metal. It made a sharp and soft _"fwit"_ sound. Arnold's father fell to the floor and his mother screamed. Arnold found himself unable to move or think, for he had absolutely no frame of reference; no way to describe what was happening or to wrap his mind around how sick he suddenly felt.

Arnold's mother ran for the door, where he hid, and screamed his name, but the stranger pointed at her.

_"Fwit!"_ the metal said again and his mother fell, right in front of him, her arms reaching out to him, her eyes gazing wide into his. They were not his mother's eyes anymore.

Arnold, now in plain sight, looked up at the stranger, whose black shadow seemed to encompass the whole room.

The stranger regarded him a moment, then said, "Choose your enemies better than your old man, kid. Maybe you'll live longer than he did." His laughter echoed off the hard, solid walls much like Arnold's parents' voices had done mere minutes ago, and the stranger left as though a guest.

Arnold was shaking.

There was blood.

His mother wasn't moving.

There was blood.

His father wasn't moving.

There was blood.

Arnold couldn't even cry. He knew, somewhere deep down, that he should be, but he was just too devastated. His mind was shrinking from him, from this unknown situation, and into darkness.

_"Hey, dummy!"_ said a voice, jolting him back into the real world.

It had seemed to have come from Woody, whose hand Arnold realised he had been clutching tightly. He loosened his grip and looked curiously at the puppet, strangely grateful for something different to focus on.

"Woody? Was that you?"

_"That ain't my name, Arnie. Not anymore."_

When Arnold's mother had fallen towards him, she had reached out to touch him, but fallen short. Arnold now saw that, in her last moments, she had clawed desperately at the puppet's features and marked them with a single scar-like scratch on its right cheek.

"I… I didn't know you could talk."

_"Course I can. But don't go telling nogody, alright? It has to be our little secret. For now."_

Arnold's mind started to drift back to his current predicament and tears began to well up at last.

"My mom and dad… I think something's wrong with them…"

_"It'll be okay, Arnie, I promise. Just so long as, from now on, you do exactly what I say…"_

* * *

**CHAPTER ONE**

**"Voices"**

Bruce knew that what he was about to do would be difficult, stressful and taxing to even his formidable stamina. It would require all of his skill, his cunning and his patience to get through. But it needed to be done in order to protect Gotham.

And so, he checked his suit, put on his mask and stepped through the doors of the Iceberg Lounge.

In this instance, his "suit" was a tuxedo, his "mask" was a smile, and his "mission" was partly to maintain his public persona. The grand opening of the Iceberg was one of Gotham's biggest events and it was set to become a prime nightspot for the city's elite to wine and dine, gamble at roulette and blackjack, enjoy music and art, and generally be seen. And Bruce Wayne needed to be seen.

As Bruce expertly navigated through the chattering maze of wealthy surnames, he glanced around at the lavishly decorated main floor: there was a bar and dining area, resplendent in fine tableware, candlelight and white-jacketed waiters; a large stage where a pianist preformed a classical piece; various expensive sculptures littered the floor; and doors led off to back rooms for games of chance and private functions.

In the centre about which all this circled was a huge artificial iceberg, rising up forty feet to nearly touch the high ceiling. Water cascaded down it from a fountain at the top into a pool below, which contained some exotic fish. From his travels, Bruce could identify at least three rare varieties not common to this part of the world. No expense had been spared.

High above all this splendour were darkened windows, overlooking this paradise of indulgence. Clearly the Iceberg's owner and manager liked feeling on top of things in more ways than one.

It was the Lounge's owner that had caught Bruce's attention and brought him here tonight, beyond merely maintaining his double life. Oswald Cobb previously lived in Gotham but had left under unknown circumstances some years ago to live in New York. Running several small, high-class nightclubs and restaurants, Cobb had insisted that he was a legitimate businessman, but Bruce had heard rumours to the contrary. Now that Cobb had returned to Gotham, Bruce would be keeping a close eye on him.

The pianist finished his piece and a man in a white tuxedo took the stage. "Ladies and gentlemen," he said, his voice amplified via microphone, "if I may have your attention please."

Bruce, cocktail glass in hand for appearance's sake, turned to the stage along with the other guests, their discordant conversations subsiding.

"My name is Drake and I am your maître d' this evening. Thank you all for attending the grand opening of the Iceberg Lounge. May I remind you that, for the next hour, drinks are free. But don't expect this every night." A polite chuckle rippled through the guests. "Now, without further ado, allow me to introduce our generous host, Mr. Oswald Cobb!"

Bruce joined the round of applause as Cobb appeared on stage. He was a short, rotund man of about forty dressed in tuxedo and tail-coat. His dark, thinning hair was slicked back neatly atop his low-set head and his well-fed features were unremarkable but for a small, beaklike nose. He walked slowly and with an unusual sway, surveying the room with tiny, unimpressed eyes.

The elegance of their surroundings, coupled now with Cobb's affluent appareance, caused an awed silence to fall over the crowd. They eagerly awaited his words as Drake adjusted the microphone for his diminutive employer. Cobb grinned, almost predatorily, and Bruce saw that he knew the crowd was in his grip.

"My friends," said Cobb, his voice deep and refined, "I have come home."

With this simple statement resonating off the walls, the crowd applauded again. Bruce joined in, if only to reluctantly praise Cobb's showmanship.

"For those of you unfamiliar with my history, allow me to explain," Cobb continued.

Not a word of thanks, Bruce noted. Not very civil.

"My family have long been in Gotham," said Cobb. "As far back as the 18th century when my ancestor, Sir Nigel Cobblepot, arrived from England, changing the family name to Cobb and eschewing his outdated British nobility in favour of an honest – an _American_ – lifestyle.

"Since then, we have been synonymous with Gotham. Industrialists, entrepreneurs, politicians, always providing for the people. My own father, Theodore, owned an umbrella factory that he had built up from a humble storefront, and it served to employ many workers before it sadly had to shut down.

"I too have sought to help those in need; supplying entertainment and fine dining wherever I can. Although I once left this fair city to seek greater fortunes and follies in New York, I have now returned home to roost. I believe my home needs me now, more than ever.

"With the Iceberg Lounge, I will provide Gotham with a beacon in its time of need. Somewhere to relax, forget your troubles and enjoy yourself. An oasis – or iceberg, if you'll indulge me.

"We need to remind ourselves that there is still good in this city, and it is should not be hidden away. It should be rewarded! So when life starts to get you down, remember that the Iceberg will always be here."

Cobb spread his arms wide as if to encapsulate the whole arena. "This is Gotham's future!"

"Blow it out yer ass, Penguin!"

At this outburst, the crowd gasped as if with one breath and Bruce turned to see Lt. Bullock standing at the rear of the room and looking as rough around the edges as usual.

On stage, Cobb forced a smile. "Ah, Lieutenant Bullock. I had heard that you were in Gotham these days. Always a pleasure." He made a signal at Drake, who spoke to two burly security men.

"How many people you kill t'get this place, Penguin?" Bullock was slowly advancing, his eyes staring up at Cobb with genuine hate and malice. The security men stood in front of him, blocking his path.

"My dear Lieutenant," said Cobb, "your wild and unfounded accusations have no place at this time of merriment. Now, far be it for me to tell a detective how to conduct himself, but should you come to me with anything resembling evidence of any misdemeanours I have supposedly committed, I would be more than happy to discuss my innocence."

Bullock eyed the security men and thought better of trying to get past them. "You can't fool me, Penguin. You're up to yer eyes in shit and I'm gonna prove it!"

Although Bullock continued his vulgar insinuations, much to the crowd's audible outrage, Cobb wearily waved his hand at Drake.

"Get him out of here!" Drake shouted at the security men.

Bullock continued even as he was dragged away. "I ain't gonna make things easy for ya, Penguin! I'm taking you down this time! Ya hear me!"

With Bullock's expulsion, Cobb sighed and addressed his shocked audience once again. "My apologies, ladies and gentlemen. Try not to let this misunderstanding spoil your evening too much."

With that and nothing else, the pianist resumed playing and Cobb swaggered offstage. As the crowd resumed its blissfully ignorant hubbub, Bruce started for the side door.

Outside, and away from the paparazzi at the main entrance, he found Bullock sat on the kerb, wiping dirt off his hat and coat. Cobb's security men had obviously dismissed him with enthusiasm.

"Lieutenant?" Bruce said.

"What now?" Bullock replied sharply. Turning to see Bruce, he relaxed somewhat. "Oh… Wayne, isn't it?"

"Yeah," said Bruce. He joined Bullock by the kerbside. The dull grey night was a welcome contrast from the bright noise indoors.

Bullock regarded him curiously. "What brings you out here? Ain't you got somebody t'get back to in there?"

Bullock had unknowingly stung Bruce with this innocent inquiry. Although Bruce usually acquired himself an attractive date (or two) for such evenings, purely for cover reasons, he had opted to come alone tonight. Nearly three months ago a serial killer calling himself Clayface had claimed the life of Julie Madison, whom Bruce had been in love with. He would have shared with her the secret of his double life had she not been taken from him. The pain of her loss was still too recent in his mind. His cover be damned; Julie meant more to him than that.

"No," said Bruce. "Alone tonight."

Bullock nodded. He had investigated the Clayface murders. He knew of Bruce's loss, but had probably underestimated its impact on the supposed playboy.

"So how come you ain't rubbing elbows, or whatever it is you types do?" asked Bullock.

"I dunno," said Bruce. "Not really in the mood, I guess. What's the deal with you and Cobb anyway? That was a heck of a performance you gave in there."

Bullock laughed tiredly. "I, uh… I used to be stationed in New York. Ran into Cobb a few times in connection with some pretty big stuff…"

"You mean he's a crook?" Bruce asked, feigning surprise.

"Never could prove anything," said Bullock with a sigh. "He's a slippery bastard. And smart; knows the system inside and out. He got away with… too much, let's just say." He started to light up a cigar, offering one to Bruce, who declined. "You want my advice, Wayne? Stay away from the Penguin."

"Yeah, that's another thing," said Bruce, frowning. "Why do you call him the Penguin?"

On this question, Bullock puffed out cigar smoke and smiled. "It's a nickname he had when he was a kid, on a count of how he looks, I suppose. And the way he walks." Bullock crudely mimicked Cobb's slight waddle. "He hated it cause he didn't have no friends and the other kids would tease him and his mommy didn't love him and boo-hoo-hoo.

"So when he gets himself all powerful like, he figures that instead of ignoring the name, he's gonna 'own' it."

"Own it?" Bruce asked.

"Yeah, some philosophical crap about turning your weaknesses into strengths or something. Anyway, now only those who have Cobb's permission can call him Penguin. Like it's _his_. He gets real mad if anyone does it without his say-so."

"And that's why you do it," Bruce said with a knowing smile.

"Exactly," said Bullock. "Really gets under his skin. Probably why he treats me so nice." He rubbed the back of his head.

Bruce now knew that Cobb was worth investigating closer, based on Bullock's account. Cobb no doubt intended to transfer his illegal operations to Gotham, since its criminal underworld was ripe for takeover. Bruce would make sure to give him second thoughts.

There was a mysterious new crime boss stirring things up _and_ a strongly anti-Batman mayor recently elected into office. The last thing Bruce needed was another diversion.

Bullock's radio started to squawk and Bullock stood to answer it. Bruce overheard a mention of homicide by the docks. Bullock could handle it. He needed to stay close to Cobb.

"Sorry, Wayne," said Bullock. "Duty calls. Shouldn't even be here, really…"

"Don't worry, Lieutenant," said Bruce. "I won't tell anyone."

Bullock laughed and walked off, leaving Bruce alone on the kerb. Although he would have liked to have questioned Bullock further regarding Cobb, it would have raised suspicion. He would do so later as Batman, after taking a closer look at the Penguin himself.

* * *

The Sprang River bisected Gotham into north and south halves and its banks were well known for seedy goings-on and dealings of ill-repute, as if all the city's corruption seeped out of the water like it were a chasm leading down into Hell itself.

Finding a dead body in the Sprang was not uncommon, as Jim Gordon knew too well, but this latest morbid discovery had the taint of uniqueness and gruesome theatricality that had touched so many of the city's crimes lately.

Gordon stood on the old wooden dockside, the body covered by tarpaulin, surrounded by officers and detectives of the MCU, a unit he commanded before becoming commissioner. Their specialised talent for distinctive crime had become more of a necessary presence in recent months.

The MCU's current leader pulled up in his rusty old hatchback, exiting with his own trademark grace and dignity, and approached the crime scene.

"Jeez, Commish," said Bullock, regarding the concealed corpse nonchalantly, "if I had known we were going fishin' I'd've brought the beers."

Gordon had learned to tolerate Bullock's grim sense of humour. "Where've you been?" he asked.

Bullock shrugged. "Personal errand."

"Wouldn't have anything to do with Oswald Cobb being back in town would it?" Gordon peered knowingly over his glasses at the lieutenant. He knew all about Bullock's career in New York and just why he had been sent away to Gotham.

"Who?" Bullock asked in mock naivety.

Gordon merely sighed and made a note to himself to keep an eye on the matter. He nodded towards the body. "Night watchman saw some men dump the body overboard a few hours ago. Couldn't ID them. Divers pulled up Eddie Skeevers here. Pretty big drug lord and pimp in the East End."

"Yeah, I heard of him," said Bullock. "So somebody had it in for him. It happens. Why the big turnout?" He pointed his thumb at the assembled MCU officers.

Gordon silently kneeled by the corpse and flipped over the covering sheet. To Bullock's surprise, he had revealed not Skeevers' head but his feet, which were encased in a concrete block.

Bullock let out a long plume of cigar smoke. "Now that is something you do not see every day," he said. "Unless you're in a bad movie."

"You know who did this," said Gordon, recovering the body and standing.

Bullock sighed. "Fits his MO. Kinda surprised nobody tried this theme before actually. Old-fashioned style crimes, the outfits, the antique weapons and cars," he pointed at the body, "'sleepin' with the fishes'… Fancies himself a real Al Capone… And no-one's even seen what he looks like."

"Scarface," said Gordon, speaking aloud the name of Gotham's newest threat.

Several small-time jobs had been preformed over the last couple of months: bank robberies, warehouse break-ins, damage to property. All expertly conducted, 'in-and-out', with very little error, and all committed by ex-Arkham inmates dressed like 1930s gangsters, armed with Tommy-guns and driving classic cars. They always proclaimed that they were working for someone they called Mr. Scarface.

The few offenders who had been caught could not give an effective description of this Scarface, often rambling crazed and inconsistent nonsense. Whoever he was he was powerful, intelligent and elusive. Not even the Batman had turned up anything yet.

"So what you figure?" said Bullock. "Scarface is branching out into the big leagues and Skeevers got in his way?"

"I don't know," said Gordon. "But I know who does."

Bullock followed Gordon's gaze to the other side of the docks where he saw a man standing in shadow.

"Bats?" Bullock said quietly.

Gordon shook his head. "Flass. I told him to meet me here."

Bullock knew of Gordon's ex-partner and how he had been kicked off the force due to Gordon's own efforts. He was now a doorman for a seedy downtown strip club and a part-time informant with his ear to the ground. What little information about Scarface they had so far was from him.

Bullock tipped his hat at the commissioner and started issuing orders to the crime scene team. Gordon made his way to the other side of the dock, leaving the busy site in the distance.

"So Eddie Skeevers finally got what was coming to him, huh?" Flass said when Gordon was close enough. The former detective remained in the shadow cast by some cargo containers, but his smug and grizzled features were still recognisable and his voice drifted clearly through the dockside air. "He never did bribe well enough." Flass chuckled to himself.

"Did Scarface do this?" asked Gordon, staying in the light. He had never enjoyed spending time with Flass even when he had been a cop.

"Hey, Jimmy, I told ya: I just do some heavy lifting for him now and again. He don't trust me with his hit list."

"Skeevers' feet were encased in cement," said Gordon.

Flass snorted. "Old school. That's definitely Scarface's deal. His guys all dress in those funny suits and talk like they're in one of them old movies. Crazy bastards; scare the shit outta me, some of 'em. All from that Arkham breakout coupla years back. You remember that, Jimmy? Back in the good ol' days when you and me–"

"You've still got nothing on Scarface himself?" Gordon asked. He did not relish Flass's reminiscing.

Flass grinned through the gloom. "Come on, Jimmy. You know how this works. I got bills to pay, and this new mayor ain't exactly making things easy for guys like me…"

"I told you before, Flass," said Gordon, sternly. "I'm not paying for information. Things don't work that way anymore."

"That leads me to thinking why I even bother wasting my time with you, Jimmy. Especially since you're the reason I'm in such a dire situation in the first place." Flass turned and started walking away. "See ya around, Jimbo."

"You were a good cop once, Flass," said Gordon. This halted Flass, but he didn't turn around. "Then you made some bad choices, and I'm not gonna question them – that's not my right… But fast or slow, those choices are gonna get you killed some day.

"Before that happens, why not make one good choice?"

Flass hung his head and slowly turned to face Gordon.

"Rhino," he said. "Scarface's top guy, his chief lieutenant… calls himself Rhino. Apparently they go way back. Big guy, not too bright. I don't know his real name or anything, but he's the next best thing to Scarface himself."

Gordon knew Flass was holding back more, but at least now he had a name, so he nodded, silently showing his appreciation, and watched Flass depart into the night.

* * *

In the upper level of the Iceberg Lounge, Oswald Cobb waited outside the doors to a meeting room, savouring the sounds within.

Mere hours ago, he had done something similar for his grand opening speech – let his audience simmer so that his appearance makes more of an impression. When Cobb had something to say, he wanted full attention on him, no exceptions.

Bullock's intrusion had been a major weakening of his effect on the crowd. Cobb would have to make sure the doormen were fired and their names blacklisted for letting him in.

Bullock himself had been a pain for Cobb in New York and it was a sad twist of fate that they had both wound up in Gotham, but Cobb was sure that, with his latest plot, soon no member of the police force would pose a problem. Not even Bullock.

Through a crack in the door, Cobb could see several of Gotham's remaining crime bosses and gang lords sat around the oak conference table.

There was Tony Zucco, an obese and vulgar man, who did not carry his weight well at all, unlike Cobb. Zucco ran a few protection rackets in Amusement Mile; too small to attract much attention.

Across from him sat Lewis Moxon, acting suave and charismatic despite being known in the underworld for extortion, illegal gambling, and as a good source of hired mercenaries. He puffed casually on a cigar, but it was clear he was just as anxious as the others.

Next to Moxon was Rupert Thorne, dignified and refined, and probably the oldest and biggest criminal name left in Gotham after the "purges" last year. Although even he was stuck in small-time smuggling due to the efforts of the Batman.

Finally there was Jefferson Skeevers, dressed in a brash "pimp" outfit. His brother Eddie was the real brains behind their minor drug and prostitution ring, but he had very recently met an oddly disturbing end. Jefferson sat silently contemplating his loss.

As the tone within began to twitch towards tension, Cobb decided to make his grand entrance.

"Gentlemen," he said, instantly grabbing their attention. "Thank you all for accepting my invitation." Cobb sat himself at the head of the imposing table. "I know it is not regular for persons of our repute and business to gather in such a manner."

"Cut the fancy talk, Cobb," said Thorne, looking unimpressed. "We all know Falcone ran you outta Gotham years ago, and now he's gone you come crawling back and promise us some kinda miracle alliance? You had better make good, or my patience will wear thin real fast."

The others looked to Cobb, indicating their concordance with Thorne.

Cobb sighed. "It is a shame we cannot speak as equals, Mr. Thorne… Very well. You are right; Carmine Falcone's Romanesque domination of Gotham did indeed encourage my retreat to New York. And as I understand it, in my absence the entire superstructure of criminal enterprise in this city collapsed because of a clown and a man in a bat costume. Is this correct?"

Thorne was angered by this, but Moxon put out a hand to calm him.

"Okay," said Moxon steadily. "The Joker and the Bat took down the big guys." He shrugged. "But we're doing pretty good for ourselves. Small-time operations don't attract much attention. Easier to get off the hook if you do get caught." There were nods of agreement. "So why would we want to spoil that?"

Cobb leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. "You are content with living under the heel of the law? Of the Batman? Of the 'freaks'?"

"We don't live under nobody's heel!" said Zucco. His ruddy features became more flushed. "We don't need to take this! We're better than this!"

Zucco started to rise, but Cobb pointed a single, sudden finger at him and said, "No. We are not."

Zucco slowly sat back down. "W-What?"

"None of us is 'better than this'," said Cobb. "We are criminals. Thieves. Swindlers. _Murders. _Whether by gun or by blade or by word of mouth, there are people dead because of us. People living in misery and despair because of us."

Cobb gestured around the room; classical gold and oak décor with oil paintings of eagles and swans and other elegant birds. "We surround ourselves in finery and opulence and tell ourselves that we are strong and they are weak. That we are wise and they are foolish. That we have rightly earned what we have. But it is not true.

"We cannot afford to be blind to our natures any longer. What we do is neither noble nor just. It is evil.

"_We_ are evil, gentlemen."

Silence filled the air as thick as fog before Moxon leaned forward again.

"What… do you propose?" he asked.

"Not so much an alliance," said Cobb, "as a cooperative."

"Cooperative?" said Thorne.

Cobb nodded. "With myself as the central figure."

"Oh I get it," said Zucco, unconvinced. "It's a pyramid scheme."

Cobb wearily raised an eyebrow. "Yes, Mr. Zucco, my master plan is a mere pyramid scheme and I was hoping none of you would notice…" he said dryly. "Please refrain from interrupting me if possible, lest you wish to continue your meagre and meek lifestyle."

Zucco was quiet, his previous argumentative zeal gone.

"You all want more out of your businesses," continued Cobb, "but are limited by the eyes of the law. If it were like the bygone days, you could all simply pool your resources. Each one of you has something beneficial to offer another, and the combined profits would be most advantageous, but you cannot risk expansion.

"This is where I come in. As a facilitator."

Thorne's eyes betrayed his scepticism. "I dunno, Cobb… What exactly are you saying?"

Cobb opened his arms in a more friendly gesture. "I own several properties in the East End. Warehouses, mostly, all legally bought and paid for. Much of that area is still abandoned from the Depression and ripe for commercial takeover. But my intentions are darker.

"We would use these properties to store your various products: weapons, narcotics, contraband, people…"

"Storage _is_ a big problem at the moment," Moxon said, coming around. "The Bat don't need a search warrant, y'know?"

"All with a big percentage to you, of course," Thorne said to Cobb.

"Actually, no," said Cobb to everyone's surprise.

"Then what do you get out of it?" asked Skeevers, who had been silent until now.

"I would rent out a warehouse to each of you and you would all pay me for that. Perfectly legitimate," said Cobb. "Should any of you be foolish enough to get caught and have my warehouses seized, I would be completely clean and blameless.

"Likewise, should _I_ encounter trouble from the law, you can each feign ignorance of my 'improper use' of your storage areas.

"Of course, none of us will be foolish enough to get caught. I can promise that." Cobb gave them all an ominous look.

"I dunno," said Zucco. "Sounds kinda iffy…"

"It is but one example of the many services we would provide for one another," said Cobb. "I assure you, our gains will far outweigh the risk of capture. And we will each only ever be involved in small operations at any one time, so it will be no more risky than your current dealings, except that our earnings will be compounded. And, in time, our empire will grow…

"Additionally, this meeting aside, we should have minimal contact with one another. This is why I asked you only to bring your most trusted accomplices and to leave them downstairs. You may tell them what you wish, but our union must remain as secret as possible, so as to diminish the chances of exposure. Tell no one else under your employ any more than is necessary."

"That's all well and good if the cops catch us," said Moxon. "But what about the Batman?"

"That's right," said Zucco. "The Bat catches us, we won't need to worry about jail, he'll just kill us!"

Cobb again sighed. "If the Batman were as bloodthirsty as the media and 'campfire stories' portray him, none of us would be having this conversation. Clearly he only kills when the law fails even him and leaves him no choice.

"Also, I have reason to believe that he may not be a threat for very much longer… Until then however, if the 'Caped Crusader' comes to you for information on our operations, simply direct him straight to me."

The table were quite surprised by this.

"You _want_ the Bat on your ass?" said Skeevers.

"Preferably not," said Cobb. "But should you refuse him data, the Batman would most probably kill you. So give him any and all knowledge he seeks."

"And when he comes for you?" asked Thorne.

"I am very much prepared," said Cobb smugly. He looked into the corner of the room. "Mr. Zeiss? If you would be so kind…"

Everyone turned to the corner in confusion, only to see a tall, lean man with a shaved head step out of the shadows as if from nowhere. He wore a long black leather overcoat and mirrored sunglasses despite the low lighting. His sharp face was passive and emotionless.

"Gentlemen, meet my personal bodyguard, Philo Zeiss," said Cobb. Zeiss nodded and remained, sentinel-like, in the corner.

"Jeez! Where'd he come from?" said Zucco in surprise.

"He has been in here the whole time," said Cobb.

"_He's_ gonna protect you from the Batman?" said Moxon.

"I assure you, Mr. Zeiss is extraordinarily capable," said Cobb. "I only acquire the best."

Skeevers suddenly became more animated. "Alright, Cobb. You say you can make us big players in Gotham… You say you ain't afraid of the cops or the Batman… I'm cool with all that… But what about Scarface?"

A worried expression crossed Cobb's face for a moment. "Ah yes… The mysterious Mr. Scarface…"

Skeevers glanced around the room. "You all probably heard by now that he whacked my brother. Came for us in our own damn home! I only just escaped, but now I hear they dragged Eddie's body outta the Sprang! That shit ain't on, man! What you gonna do about _that_?"

Cobb again steepled his fingers and sighed. "This is the other issue I mean to address now that I am back: The freaks.

"Joker; Scarecrow; Mad Hatter; Clayface… They have cast a shadow over this city and run amok with childish antics that make a mockery of our vocation. This 'Scarface', whoever he is, sees himself as a new criminal kingpin, ready to monopolise crime in Gotham for his own purposes, no doubt crazed and obscene.

"And make no mistake, gentlemen, should you choose to break from our cooperative and return to your prior pitiful existences, whether by Bat or by lawmen, you will meet your doom, and that is when the lunatics and degenerates will seize their chance and fill the void. They care nothing for consequences, for profit, for honour, for even their own freedom. Prison means nothing to them; the Batman means nothing to them; and they think that this gives them strength.

"But they are mere field mice, scavenging wildly in the dark, and we are the owls, waiting to strike!" Cobb slammed his powerful fist down onto the polished wooden tabletop. "We will not let this city descend into madness and chaos! We will take back what is ours and drive out those pretenders! THIS IS GOTHAM'S FUTURE!"

The others were now nodding along, fully convinced by Cobb's words.

"Damn right!" said Thorne.

"You've sold me," said Moxon.

"And me," said Zucco.

All eyes were on Skeevers.

"So you'll help me get revenge for Eddie?" he asked Cobb.

Cobb slowly got to his feet and walked over to the elephant's foot umbrella-stand in the corner of the room. "Let me tell you how much family means to me, Jefferson…

"My father had his own umbrella factory here in Gotham many years ago," said Cobb. He produced an umbrella from the stand and held it in admiration, slowly crossing the room with his waddling gait. "Honest and hard-working he was, but a fair boss and beloved by all his staff. Sadly though, their profits slowly declined and the factory eventually had to shut down.

"The workers all pitched in and made my father this." Cobb, now at the opposite head of the table, held out the umbrella for all to see. "It is for sentimental purposes only – the spine is made of stainless steel, the handle is pearl and the material is fine silk – completely impractical for keeping rain off of one's head." Cobb chuckled and the others joined in, except for the confused Skeevers. "But my father loved it all the same…

"Shortly before his death, the police discovered that his trusted business partner had been skimming money from the company all along. He had been involved in other frauds and was arrested, but the news broke my father's heart.

"You see, an honest life, like my father's, does not pay in the end… But crime? Crime pays all too well."

Skeevers looked around as if he were missing something. "You didn't answer my question."

Suddenly with an unexpected speed and fury, Cobb plunged the sharpened steel tip of the umbrella straight into Skeevers' heart.

The others immediately leapt to their feet, but Zeiss stepped forward, silently indicating not to interfere.

Skeevers struggled against rapid blood loss and the uncanny brute strength of Oswald Cobb who leaned in close to Skeevers. His distinguished visage was twisted by pure malice.

"It may interest you to know that I have a source within Scarface's ranks," said Cobb. "He told me that you and your brother were working for Scarface and that you were skimming money from his operations!"

"N-No…" Skeevers gasped.

"When Scarface found out, he put out a hit on the both of you! And you came running straight for me, hoping to use _me_ to settle your little vendetta!

"Although I am loathe to admit I have anything in common with a _freak_, if there is one thing I cannot stand… it is those who skim money, Jefferson…"

Skeevers drew his last breath and slumped forward. Cobb, still clutching the lethal umbrella, slowly turned his head to gaze at the other men.

"Honour among thieves is a value I hold quite dear," he said, enunciating each word threateningly.

Then Cobb withdrew the unlikely weapon and calmly handed it to Zeiss. "Drake!" Cobb shouted, calling for his maître d'.

Drake appeared promptly and said, "Yes, Mr. Cobb?" He didn't seem to notice the body.

"Have young Jefferson here disposed of," said Cobb with a wave of his hand. "Throw him in the Sprang River. Most poetic, don't you think?" Cobb cheerfully glanced towards the others who laughed nervously.

"Luckily," said Cobb, "in his desperation he was foolhardy enough to come alone, so we have no other waste to dispose of this evening."

"Very good, sir," nodded Drake. He left to acquire assistance.

Cobb straightened out his tuxedo as he resumed his seat at the head of the table. The others slowly joined him, half-staring at Skeevers' bleeding remains sprawled out over the table.

"Oh, and there is one more thing if we are to be allies, gentlemen," said Cobb. "You may all call me… Penguin."

* * *

Perched atop a neighbouring roof, the only thing between Batman and the Iceberg Lounge was the alleyway below, which the Lounge's side door entered into.

The Dark Knight had already completed a circuit of the building, assessing its weaknesses and surrounding vantage points. The Lounge was like a fortress; barely any windows (all of them darkened glass), state-of-the-art security systems, and an unusual structure that made external surveillance or entry via roof difficult.

The only feature advantageous to Batman was the loading bay at the rear, for supplies. He had thought infiltration may have been possible from there, but had checked that the security guards were licensed to carry firearms and could prove somewhat of an obstacle, especially in the tight corridors of the club.

Bullock was right: Cobb was smart. He had seemingly covered all angles, making it as inconvenient as possible for anyone looking to break in covertly.

Batman was confident he could crack the building's security codes, but would wait until after closing time, so as to minimise the number of guards.

Below him, the side door of the Lounge opened and two members of staff exited, carrying between them what was clearly a body wrapped in a white sheet. Its face was poorly concealed and Batman could see that it was Jefferson Skeevers.

Batman knew a gang hit when he saw one: Cobb had murdered Skeevers, or had him killed, no doubt over some criminal rivalry or another. Having checked in with Gordon, Batman was aware that Jefferson's brother Eddie had also been found dead earlier in the evening. Could their deaths be connected? He needed more information.

Leaning forward on the rooftop, his shadow creeping across the alley floor, Batman prepared to strike.

Beneath him, the two men carried Skeevers' body to a waiting car with its trunk open.

"Isn't this Jeff Skeevers?" said one of them.

"Not anymore," said the other.

"Yeah… Drake says we're to dump him in the Sprang."

"Whatever. Let's just do it and get back to work."

As they deposited the body in the trunk, Batman dropped out of the air and landed his armoured boots right on top of the trunk lid, crashing it down hard on the arms of one of the henchmen, who still had his hands inside.

He screamed in pain and Batman drove the heel of his hand straight into the face of his colleague, knocking him instantly unconscious before he could react.

Crouched atop the trunk, Batman hurried his interrogation for fear that the screams would have attracted attention. "WHO KILLED SKEEVERS!?" he demanded of the crippled henchman.

Whimpering from the pain, the man answered feebly, "I… I dunno… Please, I dunno!"

With precious time draining away, Batman leaned his weight forward, further crushing the man's arms in the trunk. He would spend a great deal of time in hospital, but his arms would heal. A small price for aiding and abetting a murderer.

He screamed again and tears now ran down his face. "Drake just told us to dump the body, I don't know who killed him!"

This news was unacceptable. Batman needed more solid facts if he were to bring down Cobb.

"WAS IT COBB!?" It was a risky question, as the henchman may simply tell him what he wanted to hear.

But before his captor could answer, the side door swung open and several security guards ran out wielding their over-the-counter Glock handguns. Eager to avoid confrontation, Batman threw down some gas capsules, which produced a shroud of smoke, distracting his would-be pursuers as he used his grapple gun to escape.

It had been a risk, trying to get information out of the thug in the alley, and now infiltration of the Iceberg would be impossible tonight. But Batman was not too worried; the Penguin could wait, and he had other matters to occupy him in the meantime. Gotham's new mayor for one…

* * *

Mayor Hamilton Hill had been elected a month ago on a campaign of "cleaning up the city". According to Hill, the attacks on Gotham by the Joker and others like him were a result of poor police work and, more directly, the Batman. With the public convinced that Batman is a killer, he had won a lot of support with this stance.

Given Hill's strong emphasis on ridding the city of crime, he had decided to pay a visit to GCPD's Central Station to "inspect the troops" as he put it.

Gordon had assembled the head officers of various departments, including MCU and SWAT, in the main recreation area. It was a frivolous exercise, and in Gordon's opinion a waste of valuable time, but Hill was eager to take a more hands-on approach to crime.

"What, Hill doesn't have enough keeping him busy at City Hall, he has to come here and breathe down our necks?" Bullock voiced Gordon's own thoughts.

Although the other officers had made an effort and dressed smartly for the occasion, Bullock was his usual dishevelled self and had even "forgot" to wear a tie. As commander of the Major Crimes Unit, he stood in front of his fellow officers, in line with the other CO's.

"I wouldn't take Hill so lightly, Lieutenant," said Gordon quietly while they all waited. "He plans to come down hard on our… 'silent partner' and he means it. We're going to have to be more careful about our little conferences."

Bullock shrugged. "Yeah, but Commish, everybody thinks you hate the Bat now. Your always telling the papers about the big manhunt for him and how we 'almost got him'."

"Not everyone is taken in by those stories," Gordon glanced across the hall at Lt. Branden, the head of SWAT. Branden had been staring at the two of them.

Bullock shot back a big smile and Branden looked away. "Branden's an asshole, Commish, always looking over your shoulder. But he's got nothing."

"Maybe…" Gordon left the point hanging as Mayor Hill's besuited bodyguard entered and gave him a nod.

Gordon called out for attention and everyone clicked into line. The Mayor himself then entered, a big politician's grin painted on his worn but amiable face.

"Mr. Mayor, pleasure to meet you," said Gordon as politely as possible, extending his hand.

Shaking hands, Hill replied, "Commissioner. Good to finally get down here. As I'm sure you know, I have big plans for Gotham and especially its police force."

"Well, sir, we all want what's best for the city and its people," Gordon heard himself say. He was getting far too good at delivering lines like that. "My officers and I are happy to help."

Hill nodded and indicated the assembled officers. "Why don't you introduce me to them?"

Walking along the ranks, Gordon and Hill stopped at Bullock's team first. "This is Lieutenant Harvey Bullock of the Major Crimes Unit," said Gordon.

"Mr. Mayor," said Bullock, informally saluting.

"Ah yes, you're responsible for hunting that atrocious Batman," said Hill. "How is that going, Lieutenant?"

Bullock shrugged. "He's not exactly your run-of-the-mill perp. Keeps giving us the slip. But we'll catch the bastard, don't you worry."

Gordon winced at Bullock's profanity but Hill didn't seem to mind.

"Yes…" said Hill. "I understand the Skeevers brothers were both found dead several nights ago?"

"Some problems take care of themselves, I guess," said Bullock.

Hill grinned. "Quite. Any leads on that so far? Was it the Batman exacting his own brutal justice? Or that new psychopath in the papers; Scarface? Or another individual altogether?"

"Sorry, sir, 'fraid that's an ongoing investigation," said Bullock. "Can't discuss it openly."

Gordon suppressed a smirk. Bullock could be professional when he wanted to.

"Of course, Lieutenant, of course," said Hill. "But more must be done to prevent this sort of thing. Murder is still a crime, regardless of the victim." Hill leaned in close and confidentially whispered to Bullock, "Even if it is these scumbags."

Bullock forced his tired expression into a grin but rolled his eyes at Gordon after Hill had walked on.

They moved on to the SWAT team and Gordon started to introduce Branden. "Mr. Mayor, this is Lieutenant Frank Branden…"

"Oh yes, I know Frank," said Hill with a smile. "Our fathers are old friends. How are you, Frank?"

They smiled and shook hands. "Been a long time, sir. Good to see you again," said Branden.

Gordon's smile remained firmly in place, despite his face's efforts to reflect his emotions. The new mayor was best friends with his main rival on the force. Great.

"Been keeping an eye on you, Frank," said Hill. "You're doing a damned fine job with your team."

Despite their camaraderie, Branden retained his militant posture. "Thank you, sir, but I agree with you that more should be done in order to bring in the Batman." He shot Gordon a hawkish look. "I myself have nearly apprehended the outlaw on two separate occasions."

Hill raised his eyebrows. "Oh?"

"Yes," Gordon immediately chimed in, eager to tell these particular stories, "Lt. Branden led the SWAT team to take down Batman at Arkham Asylum nearly two years ago. He and the other members of the team were subdued by… bats, wasn't it, Branden?"

"Bats?" asked Hill. "Actual bats?"

"There… was a lot of them, sir," Branden said in his defence, scowling now at Gordon.

Gordon, maintaining a professional tone, continued, "Then, just last year, Batman suspended the Lieutenant out of a skyscraper window to stop him and his men from shooting restrained hostages…"

"We did not know that they were hostages," Branden again protested. "It was–"

"No need to explain, Frank," said Hill. "As Lt. Bullock said, the Batman is no ordinary criminal." He patted Branden on the shoulder and moved on with Gordon.

"And to that end, Jim – may I call you Jim?" Hill didn't wait for an answer. "To that end, I have some changes planned that will show the Batman that vigilantism will not be tolerated in Gotham.

"You know the new DA, Jane Porter?"

"I, uh, haven't met her," said Gordon. Porter had just been elected over Vernon Fields, one of Harvey Dent's former assistants, who had been a placeholder since Dent's death last year.

Gordon was still unsure if she could live up to Dent's reputation as District Attorney, but she seemed dedicated to the job. Perhaps too dedicated…

"I've been speaking with her about the Batman problem as well, and she has some great ideas," said Hill. "She shares my belief in the law."

"As do I, Mr. Mayor," said Gordon. Hill had obviously said 'my' and not 'our' deliberately, and Gordon did not appreciate the insinuation.

"Of course, Jim, of course… I'm throwing her a little celebration in honour of her election. She protested – very modest – but I insisted. Gotham must celebrate its achievements. I'd like you to attend, Jim. Get to know the new DA, and get yourself seen by the taxpayers. Several of the city's most prestigious citizens will be attending and it'll be good for them to see how their money is being well spent."

Gordon nodded. He knew it was not a request.

"Good," said Hill. "It's at the Iceberg Lounge, tonight."

"The Iceberg Lounge?" said Gordon. "Oswald Cobb's place?" Given Cobb's supposed criminal involvement, he was surprised by Hill's choice of venue.

"Yes," said Hill. "Mr. Cobb used to be an esteemed member of our community; his family are old Gotham. Finally having an establishment of such class will be a major boon to the city, and his return shows that not everyone has abandoned Gotham.

"It's not a problem, is it, Jim?"

"No. Just last-minute, that's all…"

Gordon could not argue the matter. Bullock's assurances aside, Gordon would not act on rumour alone. If Cobb was involved in any illegal activity, they would bring him down, but not without proof.

Despite Hill's apparent ignorance of Cobb's past, Gordon could not help but wonder about the company this new mayor kept.

* * *

"We shall have to name this monster at some point, sir," said Alfred.

Bruce looked away from his bright computer screen in the dim Cave to give his butler a confused look.

"What monster?" he asked.

Alfred, casually wiping rock dust off some equipment, nodded towards the large screen. "This super-computer of yours. We can't just go around calling it 'the Bat-computer'."

Bruce smirked. "Never really thought it needed a name…" He turned back to the data onscreen. He had been reviewing Scarface's heists in the hopes of discovering something new, with no luck so far.

"Lucius tells me it's the most powerful processor on the planet, and the most intelligent," said Alfred.

"Probably," said Bruce. "It's not like we can check."

"Seems like something that incredible should have a proper name…" said Alfred, coming to stand behind Bruce's chair. Squinting at the displayed information, he said, "Still no luck with this Mr. Scarface, sir?"

"Nothing…" Bruce leaned back and vaguely pointed at the screen.

"It all started about two months ago," he said, almost to himself. Alfred recognised his master's need to organise all the facts in his head aloud. "But we still haven't been able to track anything down on who Scarface is or even what he looks like. Gordon and Bullock have been pursuing the classic car lead – looking for any mass purchases at auctions – but so far nothing. If Scarface is as smart as he seems, he most likely bought them out-of-state and through a third party.

"Using ex-Arkham inmates is also a stroke of genius," Bruce continued. "Schizophrenics and obsessive compulsives are perfect for Scarface's brand of theatrics and expert planning: All jobs executed with _precise_ attention to detail. Only a few of his men have been caught, purely by chance, and they all give unreliable accounts of Scarface's identity – saying he's not human, or possessed, that kind of thing. Another benefit of hiring the mentally unstable.

"One thing's for sure though: He's planning something big. He's started small, testing the waters, seeing which of his men are reliable, but he's expanding into Gotham's organised underworld… Gaining more and more support, like Eddie Skeevers."

"Is the death of the younger Mr. Skeevers connected?" Alfred asked.

"No," said Bruce. "Jefferson Skeevers died at the Iceberg Lounge. Gordon's contacts says that it was Oswald Cobb, although they're all too scared to be sure, of course. Based on Bullock's opinion of Cobb, it seems likely he killed Skeevers, probably to serve as an example to Gotham's other crime bosses."

"Yes, I remember that Oswald Cobb chap from years ago," said Alfred with a slight distaste in his voice. "His family were quite esteemed, but he was something of a black sheep. Rumours of disreputable connections, although nothing beyond whispered hearsay among the well-to-do."

"Bullock told me something similar," said Bruce. "I've yet to get closer to Cobb as Batman, but Bruce Wayne may have better luck tonight."

"The function for Ms. Porter?" said Alfred.

Bruce nodded. "It's at the Iceberg Lounge. I also mean to get closer to Porter herself, and the new mayor."

"Hamilton Hill," said Alfred. "He and Ms. Porter to seem to share a particular dislike for your masked alter ego."

Bruce smiled. "I want to know if it's a genuinely moral dislike or something more sinister. And if it's something I need to worry about.

"I also need to talk to Lucius about some of my equipment and he's invited too…"

Alfred brightened up. "You can ask him about a name for this thing." He pointed at the computer and, as if on cue, it started beeping.

Bruce consulted the machine. "I was running a search for Scarface's accomplices," he explained. "It's found something interesting…"

The computer displayed a mugshot of a gruff, bald man with a goatee and several small scratches on his neck.

"Victor Zsasz," said Bruce. "Freelance hitman, did some work for Carmine Falcone, was moved to Arkham couple of years ago…" Bruce raised his eyebrows as he read more from the report "…on the recommendation of Dr. Jonathan Crane."

"Not exactly a trustworthy medical opinion," said Alfred.

"He escaped during the mass break-out," Bruce kept reading, "but doctors confirmed that he was an extreme sociopath and just used the mob as an excuse to carry out his 'hobby'. He scars tally-marks into his skin for each victim."

Alfred winced. "Not a very nice man, is he?"

"He eventually wound up working for Scarface, but there have been reports of someone matching his description – particularly the tally-marks – stalking the defunct subway tunnels…"

"Perhaps Mr. Scarface did not provide him with enough job satisfaction," said Alfred.

"It's a lead," said Bruce optimistically. "Zsasz might know something important. I'll make a search for him later tonight, but right now… I have a party to attend…"

* * *

"Ah, Bruce Wayne!" Oswald Cobb greeted his guest enthusiastically as he entered the large banquet room of the Iceberg Lounge. For tonight's function Cobb had discarded his formal tuxedo in favour of a more familiar ensemble: black velvet jacket, cream waistcoat and a black silk ascot.

Cobb shook Bruce's hand firmly. "I remember your parents, always very charitable, terrible shame what happened to them."

Bruce put on his best fake smile and nodded respectfully. "I didn't get a chance to speak to you on your opening night: You've got yourself real nice place here, Mr. Cobb."

"Thank you, my boy," said Cobb. "I hope that you will be frequenting my little club regularly, and telling all your friends about it."

Bruce chuckled. "Count on it, Mr. Cobb. Where's the bar?"

"Yes, Mr. Wayne, indulge yourself," Cobb said as he gestured towards the bar, where Bruce could see Lucius waiting. "Now, if you'll excuse me, Mayor Hill is about to arrive, and he is paying for all of this."

Bruce left Cobb and made his way through the crowd, which was smaller than the opening night's, but no less moneyed and no less talkative. This function hall was not as big but just as grand as the main floor downstairs: a jazz band played smoothly in the corner and people milled around the tables and the small bar.

"I see you've met the Iceberg Lounge's friendly owner," said Lucius with a weary humour to his voice.

"Maybe not so friendly," said Bruce, leaning on the bar. He ordered a drink to maintain his image and made sure the bartender was out of earshot before going on.

"I plan to take a closer look at Cobb after I've pursued some leads on Scarface," said Bruce softly.

"You think they're connected?" asked Lucius.

"No, but word is they're both attracting Gotham's major players like opposing ends of a magnet," said Bruce. "Since last year everyone's been laying low, but if someone brought them all together again they could be a lot more dangerous.

"Cobb's plans are still unknown, but with Scarface on the side of the 'freaks' it's likely that Cobb will be rallying the remaining 'ordinary' criminals… It won't be long before one side makes a move for the other, and innocent people get hurt in the crossfire."

"You still don't know anything about Scarface?" Lucius asked.

Bruce shook his head.

"You ever think that maybe Cobb _is_ Scarface?"

Bruce looked across the high-ceilinged room at Cobb, greeting the mayor and his wife, who entered like royalty, surrounded by yes men and self-interested well-wishers. Lucius' theory was one Bruce had also considered but dismissed.

"No," he said. "It wouldn't serve a purpose. At first I thought Scarface might be a scapegoat for Cobb, but if so then why have Scarface attract so much attention? From what I've heard, they're also causing each other plenty of grief. Besides, Cobb seems too much of a showman… He doesn't like hiding…"

"Fair enough," said Lucius. "I suppose I should leave the detective work to the professionals. I'll stick with what I know."

Bruce smirked. "I need to talk to you about just that: I'm going to need an upgrade to the code-scanner. This place has pretty tight security, so it'll have to be faster. I'll also need some surveillance equipment: listening devices, tracers, that sort of thing."

"I'll have it all sent to the mansion as soon as possible… How are those new taser gloves working out?" Lucius had modified the gloves on Batman's suit to emit an electrical pulse that could stun anyone they touched, like an ordinary taser.

"Haven't had a chance to test them yet, unfortunately," said Bruce. "But I'll let you know."

"What about our latest… 'project' at Wayne Enterprises?" Lucius asked, with extra covertness.

"That can wait for now," Bruce said, noticing Jim Gordon approaching the bar.

"Scotch, neat," Gordon said to the barman. He looked like how Bruce usually felt at these events: bored and alone. Three months ago, in the midst of the Clayface murders, Jonathan Crane had taken Gordon's family captive to exact information from the Commissioner. Although they were ultimately unharmed, the trauma had been too much for them, and Gordon's wife had taken the children and left for the foreseeable future.

Bruce wished he could inquire about Gordon's family and allow him a friend to talk to, but unlike his ally Bruce could not let his real feelings show so readily.

"Commissioner Gordon," he said. At the very least, he could keep him company.

"Oh, uh, Mr. Wayne," said Gordon, clearly feigning interest. "Good to see you again."

"And under better circumstances," said Bruce, putting on his oafish charm. "Have you met my CEO, Lucius Fox?"

Fox and Gordon exchanged pleasantries.

"Didn't expect to see you here, Commissioner," said Bruce. "Your Lt. Bullock told me that Oswald Cobb was a bit, uh… 'untrustworthy', shall we say."

"Did he?" said Gordon. "Well, pay no attention to rumours, Mr. Wayne. Although, truth be told, I'm only here because Mayor Hill requested my presence." Gordon pointed across at the mayor, mingling expertly with the guests.

"You don't support Jane Porter?" Lucius asked.

"It's not that," said Gordon. "It's just… my wife was more the party-goer than me… She's, uh, out of town at the moment…"

Bruce changed the difficult subject. "Where is that lovely Ms. Porter anyway? Isn't this supposed to be her little get-together?"

"That's Hill talking to her now," said Gordon. He pointed to a statuesque blonde woman in her early thirties, very smartly outfitted in a tan-coloured pants suit rather than an evening dress.

"I must go say hello," said Bruce, excusing himself from Gordon and Fox.

"Mr. Wayne!" said Hill as Bruce approached his circle. "Delightful to see Gotham's own Prince Charming!"

Bruce smiled and nodded. He directed his attention towards the new DA. "Just wanted to say congratulations, Ms. Porter."

"Thank you," she replied with sense of forced pleasantry. "You were a big supporter of Harvey Dent, weren't you?"

Bruce nodded. "I believed in his cause. Still do."

"Well, that's what we're all about," said Hill, very aware of his small audience. "No more outlaws like the Batman running around, killing our public servants. Isn't that right, Miss Porter?"

Porter, knowing the practiced response the mayor expected, answered, "Harvey Dent's fate was appalling. It's tragic that it took his own death to prove his point. But you're right, Mr. Mayor; it can't be allowed to happen again."

There were murmurs of agreement and people started to move off, either satisfied by Porter's little speech or engrossed by the new one the mayor was starting.

Bruce himself was still intrigued by Porter herself. She clearly knew how to tell people what they wanted to hear, but her words still carried poignancy to them. Did she truly mean what she said?

Porter caught him staring. "You were friends with Rachel Dawes too, right?" she asked.

"Uh, yeah," Bruce said. Reminded of yet another lost love, he tried to contain his anguish yet still look sorrowful enough for show.

"We roomed together at law school," said Porter. "She talked about you a lot. She was devastated when everyone thought you were dead."

"I… I didn't know…" said Bruce.

"I was so sad to hear about… what happened to her…"

Bruce allowed for a respectful silence as they both thought about Rachel. "Did you mean all that earlier? About the Batman?"

"Relying on a vigilante goes against everything I hold true," said Porter, this time with more conviction. "Harvey and Rachel would both still be alive if it weren't for him. The Batman needs to be stopped, before anyone else is killed."

With genuine curiosity, Bruce asked, "But how do you stop him when the police have already been trying for so long?"

"The police… haven't been trying as hard as maybe they could have been," said Porter with just a hint of spite. "But the mayor and I have been working on a few ways around that."

Before Bruce could pursue this further, Porter was called away to another group, no doubt for another repetition of her speech. Bruce faded back into the crowd, but did not see Oswald Cobb exit into a side room.

Drowning out the noise from the party behind a thick door, Cobb hastily shuffled across the room to Drake, who held an ivory telephone receiver.

"This had better be important," he told Drake.

"It's Flass," Drake said simply.

"Flass?" Cobb took the phone and shooed Drake from the room.

"What is it?" Cobb said to his inside man. "I'm busy at the moment."

_"I know,"_ Flass whispered. _"That's what this is about: I'm doing some lookout work for Scarface down in Tricorner and I overheard some of his boys saying he's planning a hit on your place – tonight!"_

"What!?" shouted Cobb. "That charlatan thinks he can ransack my Iceberg like a common tavern!?"

_"Look, I gotta get back before someone notices I'm gone,"_ said Flass. _"Get outta there while you can!"_ He hung up and Cobb angrily stormed back into the banquet room.

By this time, Bruce had noted Cobb's absence and saw him return looking quite perturbed. Before either man could take further action however, there was an explosive crash of doors as several armed men barraged into the room.

The first few fired into the air, a time-worn tactic for attracting attention, and it worked. The music ceased and Bruce recognised the sounds of a panicked crowd retreating back from danger, just as he recognised the intruders as members of Scarface's gang.

They were all dressed in pinstripe suits and trilby hats, and were all armed with anachronistic Tommy-guns. Bruce knew most of them from Arkham Asylum patient files, but they all had the wild-eyed look of the mentally unstable.

With the party guests successfully corralled, a large man stepped onto the scene. He was built like a tank with a chest like a brick wall and tree trunk arms, and was dressed in much less sophisticated clothing – a bowler instead of a trilby and a simple vest in place of a shirt. He was undoubtedly the leader of the pack.

"Okay, ladies and germs," said the leader, his voice thundering through the room. "Youse all know the score: Hand over all wallets, cash, jewellery, yadda-yadda-yadda, and nobody gets hurt. _Capiche?_"

Bruce and Lucius glanced at one another. Without speaking, Bruce told Lucius simply to play along. There was nothing either of them could do at the moment.

As the goons separated the wealthy from their wealth, the leader paced around. "Well, well, well," he said, "lookee here… The mayor, the DA and the police commissioner all in one room." He leered over Porter, his massive shadow enveloping her. "Imagine if something were to happen…"

Porter was smart enough not to rise to his bullying, but Hill was not.

"Leave us alone, you animal!" he shouted. "Your kind won't get away with this much longer! Justice will prevail!"

Bruce cringed, wishing the mayor would keep his tongue. The thugs' leader now diverted his attention onto Hill, lowering his Tommy-gun to point at the mayor.

"I don't remember yielding the floor, Mr. Mayor," said the leader.

Then Gordon put himself between the gun and Hill. "You don't want to do this," he said calmly and firmly. "You got a good haul. That's all your boss cares about. You kill the mayor, that's heat he doesn't need."

The air in the room grew heavy. All eyes – guest and criminal alike – were on this confrontation, waiting to see how it played out. Bruce sized up the goons between him and Gordon. If their leader made a move, Bruce knew he could not take them all out in time to save Gordon.

Eventually, the leader smiled. "You're right, Commissioner." He backed off and Bruce sighed along with the rest of the room. "But you're not, Mr. Mayor," the massive man continued. "This… is just the beginning." He spoke now for the whole room's benefit. "You all remember that this was the work of Mr. Scarface – the new boss of Gotham! You all answer to him now!"

The gargantuan brute and his men fired into the ceiling once more as they made their retreat. The crowd bubbled in the aftermath and Cobb seethed in uncharacteristic silence, but Bruce was already unlocking a window at the back of the room, unseen.

Although he knew he could not stop Scarface's men, he needed more facts. Bruce recognised the leader from several security camera pictures. He always seemed to be in charge, yet so far was unidentified. How far up Scarface's hierarchy was he?

Leaning out of the open window, Bruce saw the thieves pile into their getaway vehicles below; once again, vintage cars without license plates. Removing from his jacket pocket a small digital camera about the same dimensions as a credit card, Bruce took some snapshots to analyse later.

Despite being two floors up, Bruce could easily make out the huge frame of the leader, laughing as he removed his coat. Using the camera's zoom function, Bruce saw that the brute had unknowingly given himself away by revealing a single distinguishing feature on his right arm: a tattoo of a rhinoceros.

"Gotcha," whispered Bruce. It wasn't much, but it might be enough to make an ID.

* * *

Victor Zsasz used to be an average man. He was born into an average family, lived in an average house on an average street, had average friends, went to an average school, got an average job.

His life wasn't perfect, but it wasn't imperfect either. Just average.

On his thirtieth birthday, his family and friends threw him an average surprise party. Something changed inside Victor Zsasz's average mind that day.

He looked down at the average cake, emblazoned with a large and colourful "30", celebrating three decades of striving to maintain an unsatisfying status quo. Three decades of knowing he'd never be the best, but struggling not be the worst. Three decades of exaggerating every single, minor achievement in the hopes that it would seem extraordinary.

He looked at the happy, expectant faces of the people closest to him. Average people, like him. All of them as discontent as him, but they would never admit it. They would distract themselves with birthday parties, or television, or work, or gossip, all to take their minds of how truly insignificant and unimportant they all were.

Zsasz suddenly and vividly realised there and then that he did not matter. That no-one really mattered. They could all have died at any point in their worthless lives and it would not have made a blind bit of difference. And everyone was happy to just ignore that fact and make-believe that it wasn't true.

But not Zsasz. Not anymore.

He took the knife with which he was supposed to cut the cake and he used it to cut his father's throat instead.

The cacophony of screams that ensued went unheard by Zsasz. He looked down upon his father's corpse and waited. He waited for the voice in his head that was supposed to tell him that what he had done was wrong. He waited for the guilt, the sorrow, the remorse, but none of it came.

Instead, there was only a glorious harmony. Contrasted by the chaos surrounding him, the dull throbbing in Zsasz's head was replaced by a single, beautiful chorus.

He knew now what he had to do. He had to liberate the others from their coffins of flesh and blood, free their tormented souls, just like he had been freed. He was no longer average.

Once he had killed the others, Zsasz stood in their gory mess and decided that, after thirty years of meaninglessness, now that he had found purpose he should mark the event.

And so he started carving a morbid score into his body. A tally.

With murder the only pursuit he found any emotion in, Zsasz had quickly found work as a hitman, usually for the mob. He kept his twisted passion quiet though, knowing that even hired killers would find his interest macabre.

However, Zsasz one day found himself as a tiny wheel in a much grander machine, and was sent to Arkham Asylum to further a plan that was beyond his own understanding.

There the doctors had discerned his horrifying secret: that he killed not for money but for pleasure. For purpose. But Zsasz did not care that he was exposed as different; the current trend in Gotham's underworld had shifted in his favour anyway – once again proving his path was righteous.

He had tried doing some work for Scarface, Gotham's latest power-mad freak, but his thorough plans and strict rules meant Zsasz had less freedom. He had eventually ditched that outfit and had taken to roaming Gotham's subway system, abandoned since the construction of the elevated trains years ago.

Souls in need of liberation were scarce down here, but occasionally the night was good to him.

Like tonight.

Prowling the dark and disused track, Zsasz could see a young girl in rags, rifling through some trash on the platform, obviously one of the city's many homeless children. Zsasz held back a laugh of joy. He so dearly loved to spare youths the agony of life ahead. The younger, the better.

Zsasz climbed like a spider onto the platform and stalked closer to the unaware girl. He could hear her soul screeching for release. Clutching his blade tightly, Zsasz raised his arm and prepared to strike.

But the Batman dropped from the black ceiling and onto Zsasz, his new gloves sending a shock through Zsasz's body as he collapsed and dropped his knife.

The girl screamed and ran, and Batman was thankful that she did not remain for what was about to happen.

Batman hauled Zsasz up by his tattered shirt collar. "Tell me what you know about Scarface!" he demanded.

Zsasz's inhuman eyes glared out at the Dark Knight. "Your soul screams loudest of all, Batman… So much suffering… Let me help you… Let me take away your pain…"

"You want pain, Zsasz? HERE!" With a fierce growl, Batman threw the murderer against the tunnel wall. As Zsasz slid down the brickwork, Batman jumped onto the track and stood over his prey.

"Who is Scarface!?" His booming voice echoed off the empty tunnel, surrounding Zsasz with his threat.

"I don't… I don't know," said Zsasz. "I never met him…" He groaned and winced. "I think you broke my back…"

"I'll break more than that if you don't tell me what I want to know!" Batman grabbed Zsasz and pulled him up to eye level, his feet dangling limply.

"I told you…" Zsasz wheezed. "I never saw him… But they… they say he has… two heads!" Zsasz laughed in spite of his pain.

Batman would leave Zsasz for the police after he was through with him, but it was unlikely that they would get any useful information out of the demented sociopath. Batman knew that if he wanted anything from Zsasz, now was the only time to get it.

Throwing Zsasz down and pinning him to the track, Batman yelled, "You must know names! Someone in Scarface's gang! Who were his lieutenants!? Who was your contact!?"

Zsasz continued to giggle in Batman's face. It was time to step things up.

Holding Zsasz against the metal tracks with one hand, Batman grabbed the rail with the other and activated his taser glove.

Batman had increased the level of shock, and Zsasz's body convulsed with the electrical energy surging along the metal track. Lucius would probably disapprove, but that's why Bruce usually didn't tell him about 'creative' uses for his equipment.

"A name, Zsasz!" he demanded again once he had deactivated the taser. "Give me a name!"

Wide-eyed and slightly singed, Zsasz managed to cough out, "Malone… Matches Malone…"

* * *

After getting off the phone with Cobb, Flass had returned to his cohorts. The Tricorner Yards were known for bringing in a great deal of illegal offshore goods and apparently Scarface was expecting a delivery of something big. Flass was ignorant as to what and had only been hired as a lookout – given his former employment, he knew precisely who to lookout for.

"Where were you?" asked one of his accomplices, dressed in the dated clothing typical of Scarface's gang.

"Had ta take a leak," said Flass. The lie worked, as it often did when Flass had to sneak off to 'leak' information to Cobb. Most of Scarface's goons were so delusional, Flass could probably have got away with telling them the truth.

Cobb paid good money for anything he could use against Scarface and Flass was only too happy to oblige. He only hoped the chubby entrepreneur survived Scarface's assault on the Iceberg Lounge, or Flass would be looking for another rival boss to sell out to. And there weren't many of them left in Gotham.

The truck Scarface's men had been expecting pulled up and one of the less crazy henchman spoke with the driver. When their business was concluded, the driver took off in another car, leaving the truck.

Scarface's men opened the doors, and Flass was curious as to its content. After all, it may be something that Cobb would be interested in. What he saw inside surprised the hell out of him.

"Is that… explosives?" he asked. Next thing he knew he was struck from behind, a black bag was put over his head and his hands were restrained behind his back.

"Some lookout," he heard one the goons say.

Flass could tell he was being bundled into a car and, some long minutes later, bundled out of it. Throughout the journey, he just kept thinking that they must have known about his call to Cobb. Or maybe they just didn't appreciate anyone knowing about the severely heavy-duty explosives they had acquired. Either way, this was sure to be a one way trip.

After being marched at gunpoint briefly, he was tied to a chair and the bag, at last, removed.

Blinking from the sudden bright light, Flass saw someone sat in front of him, flanked by two besuited goons with Tommy-guns.

_"You dirty rat,"_ said the shadowy figure before him. He sounded odd, like somebody high-pitched impersonating a deeper voice. _"You sold me up the river to the Penguin!"_

Still unadjusted to the light, Flass blinked. "P-Penguin?"

_"Cobb! Oswald Cobb! The Penguin, you numbskull! Don't play goody-two-shoes with me!"_

His eyes now clear, Flass could not believe the sight he beheld.

A gangly, middle-aged, balding and bespectacled man sat nervously in front of him, dressed in a gaudy tartan jacket and spotted bowtie. But perched on his knee was a ventriloquist's dummy in a tiny gangster suit and hat, with a noticeable scratch on its weathered wooden face.

Flass laughed in the face of it all. "What…? What is this?" He looked at the ventriloquist himself, then the two goons, for some clue as to the nature of this bizarre circumstance.

_"This is you staring inta the face of death, fatso,"_ said the dummy, its mouth sliding up and down in a parody of speech.

Flass kept laughing. "That's good! Your lips didn't even move! Seriously, what is this? An initiation before I meet Scarface or something, huh?"

_"I AM Scarface, ya knucklehead!"_ the dummy shouted angrily, its dull painted features unrelenting.

Flass's expression quickly turned to dread as he realised this was no joke. "Oh God…" He looked again at the other men in the room. "Jesus, you're all insane… You're all insane!"

_"You're the screwball! Selling us out like that's a dangerous game, Flass. Rhino just called ta tell me the job went off without a hitch, but no thanks ta you!"_

"Please, you gotta understand; this new mayor… he's making things tough for everyone…" The absurdity of begging for his life to a puppet was buried under Flass's urge to live.

"He… He's right, Mr. Scarface," the ventriloquist suddenly piped up. "Mayor Hill is coming down hard on our operations, and–"

The dummy's tiny hand slapped the ventriloquist. _"Shaddup, ya dummy! If it weren't for me, you'd still have a speech impediment, so whadda you know!?"_

Scarface, the puppet, revolved its head back to Flass who looked into its painted eyes as if it were a real person.

_"Hill ain't nothing! I told ya! I told ya all; this is my town now! I'm gonna be running this whole joint soon, and not the mayor, or the cops, or the Penguin, or even the Bat is gonna stop me!_

_"But I ain't gonna get nowhere with squealers like you."_ He leaned towards the goons behind him. _"Boys! Show Flass here what we do with squealers."_

The armed goons, totally devoid of any visible reasoning or sanity, stepped forward and cocked their guns.

"No!" Flass shouted. "This is crazy! He's a puppet for Christ sakes!"

_"I ain't the puppet, Flass… I'm the one pulling the strings."_

With that, his men unleashed a relentless storm of bullets on Flass, his body toppling backwards from the sheer impact and blood splattering everywhere. They continued until their guns clicked empty and Flass was unrecognisable.

_"Again! Again!"_ shouted Scarface in his glee. _"I want nothing for the worms to chew!"_

He laughed maniacally as his men reloaded and again assaulted the body with gunfire, decimating it into smaller and smaller pieces as all the while Scarface laughed.

But the ventriloquist, who had once been little Arnold Wesker, shut his eyes tight and wished for all the death and blood and madness to just go away.

Scarface kept on laughing.

**NEXT CHAPTER: "Emperor Penguin"**


	2. Emperor Penguin

**CHAPTER TWO**

**"Emperor Penguin"**

It was just last night Jim Gordon had attended a celebration for zealous new DA Jane Porter at the Iceberg Lounge, only to be robbed at gunpoint by Scarface's gang, and now here he was back again in the early hours of the morning. A dead body had turned up at the front door, and the victim was of special relevance.

Arriving at the crime scene, Gordon exited his car and approached the visibly uncomfortable Lt. Bullock. It was not the corpse, but rather its location, that had unnerved him.

"This it?" Gordon asked, peering down at the unremarkable wooden barrel sat at the bottom of the Lounge's front steps. The area was taped off, and several technicians and detectives went about their various tasks.

Bullock simply spread out his hand towards the barrel, inviting the Commissioner to take a look. Lifting the lid, Gordon cringed at the sight and the stench that greeted him.

Resetting the lid firmly, Gordon asked, "How do you know it's Flass?" He was somewhat astounded that any identification had been made from the mess within the barrel.

"Had his wallet on him," said Bullock, holding up a clear evidence bag with the pertinent article inside. "Won't know for sure, of course, till we get a DNA match." He handed to the bag to a crime scene technician and went over his notepad, but without his usual lackadaisical demeanour.

"Security guys say Flass here was dropped off at about three a.m.," Bullock read out. "By some men in an old-fashioned car. They just threw it out and drove off."

Gordon sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. Since dealing with the incident last night, and his subsequent report, he had only got a few hours sleep. At least he didn't have to worry about waking Barbara and the kids anymore. He still wasn't used to the emptiness of the house…

"He was a cop once," said Gordon, looking back at the barrel. "Not the best, but…" He didn't finish the thought. "Sounds like Scarface again… I knew Flass was doing some work for him on the side, but what did he have to do with Cobb?"

Bullock pointed to the barrel. "This here's what they used to call a 'barrel murder'. Another old school execution. The mob used to do it to squealers…"

"You think Flass was selling out to Cobb?" asked Gordon. He wasn't shocked; Flass had never known loyalty.

Bullock shrugged. "Two hits in one night. Scarface must have _something_ against the Penguin."

Gordon knew how it looked, but there was technically nothing to incriminate Cobb, and Bullock knew it too. "Is Cobb here?" Gordon asked.

"Unfortunately," said Bullock. Cobb was slowly descending the stairs of his club with his distinct swagger.

"Commissioner," said Cobb. "It is lamentable to see you once again under such odious circumstances."

Gordon nodded to the short but imposing entrepreneur. "Mr. Cobb, can you think of any reason why someone would want to do this to you?"

Bullock snorted and looked away.

Cobb ignored him politely. "As I have been telling your officers; I have no idea who the unfortunate gentleman inside this ghastly tomb is, but I can speculate as to why this 'Scarface' seeks to disgrace me."

"Oh?" said Gordon.

"The Iceberg Lounge is Gotham's future," said Cobb, as if it were common knowledge. "A future where the innocent no longer have to fear nocturnal activities. The disrespectful members of our community would rather we live in a much regretted and fearful past."

"Awfully quick to forget yer own past, ain't ya, Penguin," said Bullock.

Cobb's lip involuntarily curled at the unauthorised use of his nickname, but he kept himself reserved. "I was not aware, Commissioner, that you had your own trained police dog."

"Aw, that's rich!" Bullock shouted, starting for Cobb. Gordon put out a hand to hold him back.

Gordon looked Bullock dead in the eye and said in a quiet but firm voice, "Not this way."

Bullock looked around at the MCU detectives, crime scene technicians and Cobb's own entourage, and realised that the Commissioner was right. One false move and, as soon as Branden heard about it, he'd be suspended faster than he could land a punch.

He backed down and said, "I wasn't gonna do anything, Commish. Honest."

"My, my," said Cobb, who had retained his smug posture throughout, "you are on a short leash, aren't you?"

Bullock did not respond this time.

"Thank you for your time, Mr. Cobb," said Gordon. He led Bullock away from the scene towards the side alleyway.

"You shouldn't be apologising to that crooked bastard, Commish," Bullock said when they were in the alley's shadows.

"That was out of line, Lieutenant!" said Gordon. "I don't give a damn about your history; we don't make a move on Cobb without evidence!"

"Evidence?" said Bullock. "Commish, you don't know what he's like! He won't leave a shred of evidence for us! You already seen it: All that our best informants have got is rumours and they're still afraid to speak 'em! Cobb keeps his enemies in the dark and his friends terrified! I'm only here in Gotham 'cause I… I was getting too close to the case back in New York. Took its toll on me, y'know? But I still couldn't find a thing to pin on him…"

"I might have better luck."

Gordon and Bullock turned to see the Batman emerge from the darkness, diffusing their heated debate.

"That you might," said Bullock.

"You know about Flass?" said Gordon, nodding back towards the Iceberg Lounge.

"I got a look at the barrel before your men showed up," said Batman. "I can't tell without a proper analysis, but the dirt on the bottom looks like it's from a landfill; possibly in Tricorner. We should focus our search for Scarface there."

"The _dirt_?" said Bullock in amazement.

Gordon was used to Batman's uncanny thoroughness. "Doesn't mean he's based there… Could've just got the barrel from one of the old landfills; God knows there's plenty…"

"You've _literally_ 'got dirt' on Scarface?" said Bullock.

"It's a start." Batman now focused his attention on the larger detective. "Gordon's right: Don't lean so hard on Cobb. I can do that. You have a reputation to maintain… I don't."

Bullock chuckled privately at the thought of Batman intimidating Cobb. "Speaking of reputations, Commish; I assume the Mayor's less of an asshole after ya saved his life last night?"

Gordon sighed. "Even though he endangered himself in the first place… He's still trying not-so-subtly to imply that I'm untrustworthy or incompetent…"

"That's bull," said Bullock.

"He said that if I weren't so 'careless' and 'apathetic' this kind of thing wouldn't go on in Gotham." Gordon shook his head. "It's the same political crap I'm used to dealing with…"

"Hill and Porter both suspect our association," said Batman. "That could lead to bigger problems. But there is a way around it." Batman looked at Bullock.

"Me?" said Bullock. "What the hell can I do?"

"You're still relatively new," explained Batman. "No-one's really sure if you're trustworthy yet."

Gordon was catching on to Batman's meaning. "If Bullock pretends to be against me – against you – then he can still stay on Hill's good side."

"An inside man," said Batman.

Bullock nodded. "I'll, uh… just have to do a good job of pretending to hate you, Bats… I think I can manage that."

Batman did not respond to Bullock's jibe, but instead turned back to Gordon. "I'll take a closer look at Cobb; see if there's anything at his penthouse…"

"Nah," interrupted Bullock. "He's too smart for that; never takes his work home. You'll have better luck at his office. Trust me."

Batman nodded. "In the meantime, you can pursue the leads on Scarface."

"Flass mentioned something," said Gordon, "earlier this week, about Scarface's _capo_; his second-in-command. Called him 'Rhino', but didn't know his real name."

Batman suddenly remembered the ringleader from last night. "The man who leads Scarface's gang raids. He has a tattoo of a rhino on his right arm."

"I don't even wanna know how you know that," said Bullock.

"At least now we have a face to put to the name," said Gordon. "I'll look in the database for aliases, tattoos, acquaintances… Flass said this guy and Scarface were old friends. Chances are 'Rhino' knows who he is."

"There's one more thing," said Batman. "I ran into Victor Zsasz last night."

"Yeah," said Bullock with a smirk. "I heard he had been brought in. Busted him up pretty good, I'm told."

"He had been working with Scarface, hadn't he?" said Gordon, trying in his early morning haze to recall various reports he had seen over the last month.

"He gave me a name too," said Batman. "Although he didn't say how far up the chain of command he was. Malone. Matches Malone."

Gordon let out a reflexive laugh of surprise and shook his head in amused disbelief.

"You know the guy, Commish?" asked Bullock.

"I… I created him," said Gordon. Both Batman and Bullock shared slightly puzzled looks. "There is no Matches Malone…" Gordon took a step back and rallied his fraying memories. "It was me and… Flass, actually. Back when we were both rookie detectives. We made up this powerful underworld character to intimidate the small-time skells and dealers. Gotham was a different city back then. We had to resort to… _unusual_ methods from time to time…

"It was my idea, but Flass came up with the name," Gordon again chuckled at the memory. "Anytime we needed someone to talk, we'd mention 'Matches Malone', and say he was this big crime boss from New Jersey, and he always operated small, under the radar, that's why nobody had heard of him before, and he didn't appreciate anyone moving in on his turf…"

Gordon shrugged, almost embarrassed. "It was stupid; only worked half the time… But it caught on. Pretty soon, _we_ were hearing stories about Malone. Every time a big job went down, but no-one got caught or claimed credit, it was 'Matches Malone'. We never did tell anyone that we had made him up. I haven't heard that name in years though. Flass must have said something to Zsasz, I suppose…"

Bullock laughed. "Matches Malone. Gotta remember that one, Commish." He turned back to Batman. "Guess you're left with a–" Batman was gone "–dead end."

* * *

In the dimly lit office of an abandoned factory, surrounded by cracked plaster and crumbling furniture, Arnold Wesker sat with his constant companion of the last forty years upon his knee. Rhino, Scarface's lieutenant, stood before them and as always two henchmen were on guard.

_"Mugsy tells me last night's drop-off went down without a hitch, despite that rat bastard Flass." _Wesker's lips twitched almost imperceptibly as he spoke Scarface's words in Scarface's voice, frighteningly unable or unwilling to comprehend that it was all coming from somewhere deep and dark within himself.

"You want we should move the bombs now, Mr. Scarface?" asked Rhino. His fierce loyalty and significantly low IQ ensured that he also shared Wesker's delusion of Scarface's animation.

_"No time like the present. Besides, don't wanna be sitting on those things any longer than necessary, right?"_ Scarface's jaw rapidly clacked open and closed in sequence with his laugh. This action was also enacted independently from Wesker's conscious mind, as if Scarface truly was a separate individual to him.

Wesker had learned long ago that speaking out against Scarface was futile, yet he still felt strangely compelled, as if his fragile psyche demanded it, to assure itself that Arnold Wesker still existed somewhere inside. "M-Mr. Scarface," he risked, "I know I've said this b-before, but are the explosives really necessary? It all seems so viol–"

The puppet's wooden hand slapped him across the face. To Wesker, it was not he who had manipulated this action, but rather Scarface who had done it all by himself. _"Who's running this show, huh? Who?"_

Wesker winced. "Y-You, Mr. Scarface." He switched between voices so quickly it helped convince his mentally disturbed accomplices that he truly was two distinct people.

_"That's right, dummy!"_ said Scarface. _"Now, what'd I tell ya all them years back, eh? Everything will be okay just so long as you do exactly what I say. That's still true, Arnie."_

"I know, Mr. Scarface. I'm sorry. You're always right," said Wesker. "You helped me through so much…"

Just then, one of Scarface's more competent henchmen, whom he had dubbed 'Mugsy', burst through the door. "Sorry ta interrupt, boss, but you're gonna want to see this." He switched on the television in the corner of the office and turned it to the GCN news station.

The entertainment and society reporter Lydia Filangeri was reporting on location at the Robinson Park Zoo. _"…where philanthropist and entrepreneur Oswald Cobb has generously donated some endangered penguins."_ There was a shot of the penguins frolicking in their habitat with Cobb and a cheerful crowd gazing on. Lydia and the camera got closer to Cobb. _"Mr. Cobb, what brought on this act of charity?"_

Cobb oozed charm at the camera. _"Well, Lydia, my grandfather, Nathaniel Cobb, was a noted ornithologist, so you might say it's the family business."_ They both chuckled. _"Jocularity aside, I am attempting to rekindle Gotham's former spirit. This city, which is so dear to me, has endured terrible and trying troubles of late, but that is no reason for its citizens to think that good times will never come again._

_"I'm sure by now everyone is aware of my own 'troubles' since returning to my beloved hometown."_

_"Your nightclub was robbed," _Lydia clarified.

Cobb nodded. _"Indeed. Despite this ordeal, I still forge forward into the light. We cannot let this city's criminal element cast a shadow over our well-being. We must show them that they _cannot_ bring us down."_ He stared for just a moment into the camera.

_"I'm hoping that the zoo, like my Iceberg Lounge – if you don't mind the gratuitous plug – will become somewhere for Gothamites to enjoy the wonders that life still has to offer. _This_ is Gotham's future."_

_"Turn it off!"_ Scarface shouted. Mugsy did so and he, along with Rhino, Wesker and the two guards, tentatively awaited their artificial leader's comments. _"I thought we had spooked the Penguin with the robbery and what we done ta Flass… I at least thought it woulda given him second thoughts about trying ta start something against us… But he ain't backing down."_

"What makes ya say that, boss?" asked Rhino.

_"Didn't ya all see it?"_ said Scarface angrily. _"He was sending us a message. All that 'cannot bring us down' crap; that's him trying ta say he ain't afraid. He's gonna continue ta be a thorn in our side."_

"S-So what are we going to do, Mr. Scarface?" asked Wesker, already dreading the answer.

Scarface didn't move for a moment, as if the wooden dummy were in contemplation. _"I planned for this possibility, boys. I knew there might be some hotshot who tried ta make a stand against us, calling us 'freaks' and all ah that. Penguin needs ta see that it's _me_ who's running this town, not him… _

_"Rhino, send word out to the remaining bosses who didn't sign up with Cobb's little Sunday school club. Tell them that if they want Cobb outta the picture, they're ta come and see me."_

Rhino nodded obediently. "You got it, Mr. Scarface."

_"Penguin wants trouble?"_ said Scarface. _"I'll give him trouble all right."_

* * *

Bruce emerged from the gloom of his subterranean fortress and into the mansion's brighter environs, searching for Alfred so that he might further task the old butler.

Finding him in the study, just getting off the phone, Bruce smiled as politely as he could. "Alfred, I'm going to need the private jet ready for a flight to Chicago as soon as possible."

"I shall telephone the air field at once, sir," said Alfred with an ever-weary expression. "Might I be so bold as to ask why?"

Bruce grinned at the act. "Finally tracked down our friend 'Rhino' in a Chicago PD database. Matched his tattoo and description to a Frederick Charles Daily, arrested for armed robbery and assault. He was found to be mentally unstable and sent to somewhere called the Breyfogle Institute for treatment and rehabilitation.

"But that's where all record of him ends. I can't find anything from this Institute, so I'm going to go out there and 'ask around' myself."

Alfred smirked. "I knew that nameless monstrosity of a computer would fail you one day, Master Wayne. Technology can't beat a bit of old-fashioned detective work."

"It should just be for one night," said Bruce, playing along with Alfred's tone. "Coming up with an alibi shouldn't be too difficult, even for you."

"Very good, Master Wayne," said Alfred dryly, picking up the receiver again. "Oh, I almost forgot; you have two messages: Mr. Fox called and told me to inform you that your 'secret project' is nearing final stages and he needs to see you about it."

"Good," said Bruce. "I'll speak to him before I fly out to Chicago..."

"Still keeping this one under your hat, are you, sir?"

"Don't worry, Alfred," said Bruce, enjoying the secrecy. "You'll find out all about it soon enough. You always do... What was the other message?"

"Hm?" said Alfred, clearly still annoyed at being left out the loop. "Oh yes, that was Ms. Porter just there. She has confirmed your invitation to the opera tomorrow evening."

Bruce nodded. "I need to know if she can be trusted and what she has planned for Gotham. This 'friendly invite' seemed the best way to get closer to her without raising suspicion. It's a special performance; all proceeds are going to charity."

"Yes, sir, I bought you your tickets," said Alfred. "It was the benevolent Mr. Oswald Cobb who organised the event, on his quest to give Gotham a brighter future." Alfred's words were tinted ever so slightly with sarcasm.

"Speaking of the Devil," said Bruce, "I think it's finally time Batman paid the Penguin a visit." He started to head back to the Cave.

Alfred began dialling, shaking his head. "Tomorrow the opera, tonight the darkest depths of Gotham…"

Chuckling, Bruce turned back. "Oh, what was the opera called again? Began with a 'Z', right?"

"_Zoroastre_, Master Wayne." Alfred looked up and grinned. "You'll like it: It's about good versus evil."

* * *

Cobb weaved through the Iceberg Lounge's guests as gracefully as the creature for which he was nicknamed swam through the ice cold waters it called home. They both followed the same mentality: Avoid the predators and head straight for the little fish, glittering like silver in the murk.

He left the main floor and the vainglorious simpletons whose money he plucked with ease and style, and made his waddling way upstairs to the private rooms.

Composing himself after the long trek, he spoke with his maître d' Drake. "Fetch Mr. White at once. And see to it we are not disturbed."

Drake nodded obediently and left. Cobb sighed and entered the conference room.

"Mr. Thorne," he greeted his accomplice inside. Thorne sat with arms folded, a complimentary drink in front of him, at one end of the table. "This is highly irregular and somewhat precarious. As you no doubt recall, I forewarned you all about being seen in public with me."

Thorne was absently rubbing the polished oak table. "You cleaned this place up real nice. Y'know, after you put a goddamn umbrella through Skeevers. That was damn odd..."

Cobb calmly sat. "I assume you have a purpose here?"

"First of all, you can rest easy: Only people that know I'm here is my driver, who thinks I'm just shooting craps, and my bodyguard, whom I obviously trust with my life, and he's downstairs.

"And I'm here because, despite what you say, I'm concerned about the Batman."

Cobb sighed. "As I have explained…"

"Yeah, yeah, I know," Thorne interrupted. "You got the physical threat taken care of. But the Bat's smart too, Penguin. Okay, so all that stuff with the storage is legal, nobody can touch us there… but what about this 'facilitator' stuff?"

Cobb leaned back, unperturbed. "Go on."

"Well, with the Skeevers brothers out the way, I've been moving in on their drug racket, but I've been using Moxon's boys to move product, as you know. You set that up and you take your share – which I got no problem with. This way, me and Moxon don't look connected, and you say you got your own tracks covered."

"You are concerned with how?" Cobb asked, thankful for having finally discerned Thorne's point.

"Don't matter how clean you're trying to look," said Thorne, with a low voice. "Everybody keeps books on this stuff. _Everybody_."

There was a timely knock on the doors. "I thought that might be the nature of your visit," said Cobb. "Come in," he said to the door.

In walked a young man dressed in a light grey Gucci sharkskin suit, open collar shirt and slicked-back hair. "You sent for me, Penguin?" His confident demeanour matched his fashion style.

Cobb gestured for the man to close the door and sit. "Mr. Thorne, this is my personal accountant, Warren White."

"White?" said Thorne. "Aren't you that guy from LA? That huge scam a coupla years back…"

"Yep," said White. "Cleaned out six big-name businesses, including a few that didn't make it to the papers, and walked away free as a bird with the money still in my pocket."

Thorne nodded respectfully. "I remember. Nobody could touch you. The media called you 'The Great White Shark'…"

White leaned back cockily. "Yeah, they do that sort of thing. Course, I couldn't stay in LA, cleared-of-all-charges or not. People are so single-minded sometimes… Made my way out to New York and Mr. Cobb here generously offered me a job."

"Warren is _very_ good at covering tracks, Mr. Thorne," said Cobb.

Thorne nodded. "Alright, Penguin. You really have got all the angles worked out."

Cobb rose from his chair. "Since you are here, Mr. White could use some more of your details. That is, if you are finally convinced that our cooperative is of benefit to all parties?"

Usually Thorne would not have taken such a scolding from anyone, but he reminded himself that times were different now. He could not afford to aggravate the Penguin.

"Very good," said Cobb when Thorne did not respond. Leaving him with White, Cobb made his way back to his office. Aside from his unscrupulous endeavours, he also had a legitimate business to run and a public persona to maintain. Although White handled his less-than-legal monetary affairs, Cobb's official accounts were kept in a wall safe in his office, and he needed to finalise some transfers for the charity opera he was organising, in favour of the "bright future" he had planned for Gotham.

* * *

Cobb's office was twice the size of the average living room, bedecked with the Iceberg Lounge's ever-present furnishings of gold and oak, like some ancient throne room or imperial palace. A couch of finest leather lay at one end of the room, with a record player and mini-bar for relaxation, and a bookcase lined the wall in the middle. Although it contained several classics, it was mostly ornithological texts by Cobb's grandfather.

Nathaniel Cobb had been a well-known bird expert and written many reference books on the subject, earning him quite a bit of money. After Cobb's father had died, Cobb himself inherited Nathaniel's modest fortune, much to his mother's envy. It had been no secret she had married his father for his wealth, and she hated that it now all belonged to little Oswald. She reminded him of this as often as she could. When he was 18, Cobb had flown the nest, to seek his own fortune in life, and had not looked back since.

A large, circular desk dominated the head of the office, and behind it was a wall of glass, looking down at the main floor below. Cobb shuffled his way up to where a portrait of an emperor penguin hung on the wall next to his desk. Casually checking over his shoulder that the shadowy office was empty, Cobb slid the picture to one side, revealing his secret safe behind.

"Twelve forty-one," said a deep and intimidating voice from behind him, reciting his safe's combination exactly. Cobb turned quickly and saw the Batman standing where once the room was empty.

The Penguin grinned a sharp smile. Seemingly none too disturbed by the Dark Knight's presence, he took his seat at his desk. "At last, winged mammal meets flightless bird. I've been hearing much about you. Please, sit down."

Batman remained standing, and the office seemed somehow darker. "Things have changed since you were last in Gotham, Penguin," said Batman, deliberately using Cobb's nickname to rile him. "I know what you think you're doing, but it won't work. Not in my city."

"You _know_ what I'm doing, do you, Batman?" said Cobb, steepling his fingers calmly. "Then you had best tell the police, hadn't you? Although, truth be told, I cannot imagine you on the witness stand. I rather think you'd have trouble getting past 'state your name,' don't you?"

Batman leaned over Cobb's desk. "Who said anything about the police?"

Cobb sighed. "I had hoped we would not need to resort to threats, Batman, but so be it. Allow me to introduce Mr. Zeiss." He gestured to behind Batman.

At first, Batman assumed that Cobb was pathetically trying to distract him, as he had felt no presence behind him. Then he saw, just a flicker out the corner of his eye, a reflection in the glass behind Cobb. A bald man in mirrored sunglasses and a leather trenchcoat, silent as a ghost, over his own shoulder.

Batman immediately threw up his arm to block the blow he knew was coming, barely in time, as his assailant's own arm collided with his. He had no time to wonder how this 'Zeiss' could possibly sneak up on him, before the eerily quiet attacker threw another deadly arm straight into Batman's ribs. Even through his Kevlar-lined armour, it winded him. Zeiss was clearly no ordinary hired thug.

His speed was almost preternatural; Batman did not even have time to strike his own blows, he was so busy blocking Zeiss'. After every hit, came another, as fast and relentless as a downpour: Batman blocked a move meant for his head just as Zeiss made for a kick to his shins, constantly keeping him on-guard. Zeiss was no bar-room brawler either; Batman detected hints of jujitsu, aikido, kung fu and various other martial art forms, all blended together seamlessly. It almost seemed familiar.

All the while, Cobb chuckled at this blur of motion, as if it were purely for his amusement. Zeiss, however, did not share his employer's enjoyment. Batman could tell from his demeanour: Zeiss would not stop until his opponent was dead.

Suddenly a powerful kick to the chest propelled Batman backwards with such force that he shattered the glass wall of the office and fell downward to the floor below. Exhausted from the fight, Batman barely had time to reach for his grapple-gun, but it was unnecessary as he landed on the hard, treated plastic of the iceberg centrepiece, the crowd gasping beneath him.

Zeiss' kick was so strong that, if it weren't for his protective armour, Batman was sure he'd have broken ribs. He was also sure that Zeiss would now consider their fight finished, but as Batman picked himself up, a wild and swift shadow dropped on him, knocking him off balance.

Batman slid down the watery surface of the faux iceberg, struggling for purchase. Zeiss' steel-capped boots provided him with better grip and he strode down the fountain towards his prey.

Already fatigued from the challenging combat upstairs, Batman knew he'd be no match for Zeiss without further preparation, and with the guests having taken notice of their one-on-one battle, he was no longer inconspicuous. This needed to end now.

Recalling his own martial arts training, Batman realised how to turn Zeiss' advantage into a disadvantage. His mysterious opponent stood over him with an unprofessional sneer and Batman activated the tasers in his gloves, setting them to maximum voltage. The current shot through the running water and conducted effortlessly into Zeiss, shocking him into unconsciousness. Batman's own suit was insulated against such measures.

With Zeiss' limp body following the cascade of water to the base of the fountain, Batman fired his grapple through the overhead skylight and pulled himself up. Before he exited, he passed by Cobb, gazing out of his broken office window, and shot him a look that told him they were not through.

* * *

"I tell ya, Franco, this whole city's going ta Hell in a hand basket," said Sean Riley, adjusting the collar of his overcoat, as if to protect himself from the city's demons.

Riley was the head of the Irish-descendent criminal families in Gotham. Their numbers had been thinned by the juggernaut-like expansion of the Falcone-Maroni empire, with whom Riley had always been too proud to ally with. But these were desperate times, and even with Falcone and Maroni out of the picture, life was still hard for them, which was why he had grudgingly accepted Scarface's invitation.

Franco Bertinelli stood alongside him and their respective bodyguards outside the unremarkable factory in Tricorner. Bertinelli was a good deal younger than Riley, and had risen to power in one of Gotham's Italian crime families. Despite the feudal nature of Gotham's underworld, and Riley and Bertinelli's differing heritages, the two men had always been friends, if not actual allies.

"That's the way of it, Sean," said Bertinelli. "Freaks like the Joker, Batman, Scarface… They're the ones running the show now. They got more power than we do, and we can't afford to ignore it any longer."

"This 'Scarface' says he can take the Penguin outta the picture," said Riley. "That's all I care about. Cobb may have suckered Thorne and those others with his fancy talk, but Sean Riley knows a rotten apple when he sees one."

"He's been making things tough for me and my boys," said Bertinelli. "Muscling in on our territory, raiding our safe houses, that kinda thing…"

Riley nodded. "Same here. He don't take too kindly to people telling him 'no'. We may not have had the same power as Maroni or Falcone, but life was sweeter before Cobb showed up."

"They say Cobb isn't afraid of the Batman," said Bertinelli.

"Bullshit," said Riley. "Nobody likes to say it, but we're all afraid of the Batman, Franco. Except the freaks…"

"Maybe that's another good reason to join Scarface…"

Riley let the matter drift away into the cool night air. He changed the subject. "How's Helena?"

Bertinelli smiled at his daughter's name. "Great. Always into her books. She's real smart." He chuckled. "Smarter than her old man, that's for sure."

Riley's craggy features worked their way into a grin. "They're grand, in't they? Especially at that age."

"How's your Peyton?"

Riley rolled his eyes. "Ah, you know Peyton; always after some troublesome lad. She'll wind up with a man that's no good for her, that one. Wish I could say she's as smart as your Helena."

Bertinelli shrugged. "It's just a phase, Sean. I wouldn't worry too much."

Riley chuckled. "Maybe we shoulda had boys, eh?"

Bertinelli joined his laughter. "Tell me about it!"

Their laughter eventually died away and once again the grimness of their locale and their purpose there was brought back into their minds.

"Jesus, what's this guy waiting on?" said Riley, suddenly impatient. "We told his man we were here half an hour ago!"

"I think we're waiting on a third person," said Bertinelli, nodding towards an approaching car. They both watched with interest – their bodyguards poised for a potential threat – as the car pulled up and opened its doors.

A remarkably tall woman exited and stared blankly at the two of them. She was broad-shouldered and although her reddish-brown hair was tied back in a ponytail, her rock-hard face showed no feminine traits. Both Riley and Bertinelli knew exactly who she was.

"Sophia Falcone," said Riley, almost in disbelief. "As I live and breathe." She did not respond. "I heard rumours that she had returned to take over her father's empire," Riley now said to Bertinelli, overemphasising the drama, "but I didn't believe a word. Till now."

"Mr. Mirti," Falcone said to her bodyguard, "if you could let them know we've arrived." Her loyal aide went to the factory door and spoke with one of Scarface's men, and Sophia continued to stand stoically in wait.

"Guess it makes sense that you'd want to stick it to Oswald Cobb," said Bertinelli, trying to sound friendly. Everyone needed allies these days. "I hear him and your old man never did see eye-to-eye… Shame about what happened to Carmine, by the way…" Falcone gave Bertinelli a grave look, silencing him.

"Mr. Scarface will see you now," said the man at the door.

"Well, it's about damn time," said Riley.

The powerful trio and their respective entourages made their way up the worn and rusty staircase inside to the office level. The factory was littered with various crazies in Halloween-esque gangster costumes, which made the whole party feel somewhat ill-at-ease, as if suddenly surrounded physically by the previously intangible insanity of the city.

Rhino was there to meet them on the top floor. "Stay behind the white line," he said, opening the door to the head office.

"What is this? Customs?" said Riley.

The group entered with one bodyguard each, leaving another outside in accordance with old traditions and practical superstitions. The room was dark but for a single dim bulb hanging over them which ensured that they could only just make out the room's other occupants: two of Scarface's own bodyguards and a man in a chair who was too shrouded in darkness to discern anything about.

They all maintained their position behind the white line, partly out of respect, and partly out of fear. Rhino stood back against the door.

_"I was gonna thank you all for coming,"_ said Scarface from the shadows, _"but since it's in all our best interests, I think we can skip the pleasantries and just get to business, eh?"_

"I like your efficiency," said Riley, only half-joking. "You say you can bring down Cobb. How?"

_"You leave that ta me, Riley,"_ said Scarface. _"In the meantime… Quid pro quo."_

"Figures," said Bertinelli.

_"Don't get me all wrong, lady and gents. I don't want anything from ya… Yet."_

"Goddamn freaks," Falcone whispered. Then, louder, "If you can't speak straight, then this is a waste of time!"

_"If I strike a major blow against the Penguin _tonight_… I want you to swear an oath of fealty ta me."_

Riley chuckled. "This what ya told the Skeevers brothers?"

_"They were given the same offer I'm giving youse guys,"_ said Scarface. _"Alliance. But they tried ta double-cross me!"_ There was a strong pang of anger in his voice at this point. _"One of 'em managed ta escape, but I hear he got what was coming to him, just like his brother. Either way, all a their men and their entire operation is under my control now, but it coulda been theirs._

_"What I'm saying is: Don't screw with me and I won't screw with you."_

"What do we get out of it?" asked Bertinelli.

_"Power,"_ said Scarface. _"Just like the old days, before the Bat. I know him and Cobb have both been making things difficult for youse. But you join me and I'll change all a that. We're too smart for the Batman and, if you say yes, we'll be too powerful for the Penguin."_

Riley and Bertinelli were seriously considering the offer. Everything Scarface had said was true, and they knew they'd never get power like he was offering on their own now that Gotham had Batman. But it was Sophia that spoke first.

"Alright, 'Scarface'," she said. "You don't wanna show us your face for whatever reason; I can live with that. The freak thing bothers me though. It was freaks like you that put my father in Arkham and made it so hard for me to rebuild what he had. But Gotham is a different city now than it was in his day.

"You were straight with us, so I'll be straight with you: I'll put up with all your damn quirks and join your little group if you do one thing for me… Make Cobb bleed."

Riley fell in behind Sophia. "That's the decider for me too. Show us what yer worth, boyo."

Bertinelli folded his arms, signalling his agreement.

Scarface did not say anything for quite a while. Riley and Bertinelli briefly worried that Sophia may have angered him with her 'freak' comments, but then he said, _"So be it… The Penguin dies tonight!"_

* * *

The Gotham Imperial Theatre on Grant Plaza was as grand and majestic as most high-class theatre houses, and was serving as the location of the charity opera performance provided by Oswald Cobb. It was filled with the usual crowd of Gotham's A-list personalities, including Cobb himself, and Bruce Wayne with his guest for the evening, Jane Porter.

The Imperial was the premier location for such events, ever since the theatre where Bruce had last attended the opera, in the East End, had been shut down. His parents' murder had cast a grim shadow over that entire area and although such a dark and painful memory would normally be foremost on his mind in such circumstances, Bruce found himself distracted by more recent proceedings as he stared over at Oswald Cobb in the opera box across from him.

The audience beneath them busily made their way back to their seats as the intermission drew to a close, but Bruce remained fixed on the obscene criminal as he chatted with unashamedly false charm at his date, whose reciprocation undoubtedly came at a price. Cobb's enigmatic and formidable bodyguard from last night was nowhere to be seen.

"Bruce? You okay?" his own date asked. "You seem a little… distant."

Bruce was brought back by the irony of Porter unknowingly reminding him that his purpose here was to study her, and not Cobb. "Sorry, Jane. I'm just… not too big a fan of the opera."

Porter smirked. "Well, it's not for everyone." Despite Bruce's distraction, it had seemed that Porter had bought into his public persona. It was clear she had attended only out of her love of the arts and for the charity. She had no interest in the supposedly uneducated playboy that was Bruce Wayne.

"What do you make of Oswald Cobb?" Bruce asked her, nodding across at the man in question.

Porter genuinely considered this issue for a moment. "He seems like the kind of public person Gotham needs now; positive, motivated. Even if he is only taking advantage of everyone's desire to escape and ignore what this city's become, at least he's doing some good. Like tonight's performance."

Bruce knew that Porter was right about Cobb's 'followers' and wondered just how much he was to blame for that himself. How many had he driven to Cobb, seeking an excuse to look the other way because of their fear of Batman? Porter's appraisal of Cobb seemed honest and pure enough, but Bruce still needed a measure of where her own interests lay.

"Why do you ask anyway?" she said. "Thinking of getting a piece of the action?"

Bruce shrugged nonchalantly. "Nah, I barely know what to do with the money I have, I don't need any more." They both laughed ever so casually. "I've just been trying to get… closer to him. Hasn't been easy…"

The orchestra was returning to their pit at the front of the stage and Bruce realised he had little time left to test Porter's trust. He had to press the matter. "You, uh, said something at Cobb's party about finally bringing down Batman. What did you mean by that?"

Porter smiled at this. The orchestra signalled the beginning of the final act by playing a few quiet notes and Bruce worried that he may not get a full answer. "Mayor Hill and I have got an idea that's going to put a stop to the Batman once and for all. Just you wait, Bruce."

But Bruce could not wait. "What do y–?" he started to ask but was interrupted by a sound he knew far too well: a gunshot.

Screams rippled outward from the audience like shockwaves and, at the epicentre of this panic, stood upon the stage instead of the cast were several of Scarface's zoot-suited henchmen. Their leader, Rhino, held a smoking Tommy-gun aimed at the dead conductor.

"Ladies and germs!" Rhino shouted, silencing the crowd. "Tonight's performance has been cancelled! All proceeds will now be going straight to the new _capo supremo_ of Gotham, Mr. Scarface!" The other armed goons were already moving through the audience, as they had done at the Iceberg Lounge. "Anyone tries ta be a wiseguy or worse, a hero, and they get filled full a lead!"

Bruce had immediately stood when he had heard the gunshot, and now knew that Scarface's men being here could not be a coincidence – they must be after Cobb. He needed to get Cobb to safety and find some way to alert Gordon, fast. Before Bruce could make some excuse to Porter, two henchmen burst through the door to their opera box.

"You can't do this!" Porter shouted. "You won't–" The first henchmen struck her unconscious with the butt of his Tommy-gun.

"Shaddup, lady!" he said.

"Hand over yer cash, Mr. Millionaire," the second said to Bruce.

"Sorry, gentlemen," said Bruce. In one swift motion, he drove the second henchman's own rifle butt into the face of the first, returning the favour on Porter's behalf, then headbutted the second out cold. "These seats are taken." They were clearly not the brightest of hired help and likely insane; his cover was secure.

Making sure Porter wasn't too badly injured, he ducked down so as to be unseen by the masses below, and called Alfred on his cell phone.

_"Bored already, sir?"_ Alfred answered.

"Priority Alpha," said Bruce. He knew Alfred would immediately snap into his own professional manner. "Contact Gordon. Tell him it's a Code Seven, Gotham Imperial Theatre." Bruce hung up and took a quick look over the edge. No henchmen were in Cobb's box yet, but that would not last.

He quickly made his way down the staircase to the ground floor, taking care going around corners in case anymore thugs patrolled the side corridors. There were two outside the door to the main foyer, but none covering the backstage entrance. Although efficient, this was clearly supposed to be a fast job; otherwise they'd have covered all areas.

Thinking tactically, Bruce knew that upon receiving Alfred's anonymous alert, Gordon would arrive swiftly since the theatre was close to GCPD Central Headquarters, but he still needed to get to Cobb. Keeping constantly moving, he slid silently backstage, ever-wary for any costumed goons.

At the side of the stage, he could see Rhino eagerly searching the crowd for Cobb and Bruce knew his patience would not last. Moving behind the backdrop, Bruce suddenly came face to face with the dead bodies of the cast and crew. He had suspected that they had likely been killed the moment he had seen Rhino, but still felt a flicker of anger at the senseless loss of life before him. There was no time to dwell on such things now.

Silently disabling another henchman patrolling the backstage, Bruce crept down into the opposing side corridor that led to Cobb's box. He worried that, in his need for stealth, he had taken too long and Cobb would have been found, but to Bruce's surprise he found the rotund man himself creeping down the hallway.

"Wayne?" Cobb whispered, equally as astonished. "What…? How did you–?"

"I slipped out before anyone saw," Bruce answered the very questions he wanted to pose.

"Likewise," Cobb nodded. "Unfortunately, my lady-friend was not so lucky. We should remove ourselves and contact the authorities at once."

Bruce could not help but agree with the criminal he was trying so very hard to bring down. None of Cobb's illegal actions mattered to Bruce now though: No-one would die while he stood by and did nothing. No-one.

"This way," he said, leading Cobb towards the fire exit. But they were too late.

"Lookee what we have here!" Bruce and Cobb turned to see two armed goons behind them.

Unable to act without risking gunfire, Bruce had to allow himself and Cobb to be marched out before the stage. Rhino seemed genuinely taken aback to see Cobb, as if he had started to lose hope and enthusiasm. The crowd were less vocal now and their attentions were drawn towards the main performance.

"Well if it ain't the Penguin himself," said Rhino. "You've been causing too many problems for Boss Scarface."

Cobb, restrained by the henchmen, struggled in vain. "If your 'boss' has grievances with my legitimate endeavours, then that is his folly! Had he chose a more honest living, he would not be in this–"

Rhino roughly struck Cobb's soft features into silence. "Get him on his knees!" He looked at Bruce. "Who's this?"

"Just some other rich clown," said one of the henchmen.

"Put him with the others," said Rhino. "We got a job ta do…"

As Rhino cocked his Tommy-gun, Bruce knew he had seconds left to act. There were too many eyes for him to try anything big, so we went for a more subtle approach.

With an exaggerated "Whoops!" Bruce pretended to stumble and in doing so elbowed the henchman escorting him in the crotch, hard.

Distracted by his whining, Rhino looked over. "Jeez! Can't you guys do one thing right? Goddamn lunatics!"

Bruce had planned on luring Rhino away from Cobb, but luckily it was unnecessary.

Several gas canisters were suddenly launched into the auditorium to cries of "POLICE! FREEZE! EVERYBODY DOWN NOW!"

Panic ensued as Bruce's cavalry arrived, giving him sufficient cover to knock out two henchmen and make his way to Rhino. The police SWAT team crashed into the crowd, sending people screaming every direction as Scarface's men fought back. It was sheer chaos.

Staying low to spare himself the tear gas, Bruce found Cobb surprisingly unharmed. There was no sign of Rhino. In fact, most of Scarface's saner thugs were retreating.

"Cobb! Stay down!" Bruce shouted, hoping to avoid getting hit by the stray bullets.

"Damn that Scarface!" Cobb was shouting amid the mayhem surrounding them. "How dare he embarrass me like this a _third_ time! Has he no common decency!"

Bruce ignored Cobb's arrogance as he waited with a patience that he did not know he possessed for the carnage to subside. He could do nothing for the people running blindly through the tear gas and crossfire like startled cattle. The only person he could save now was the man with blood on his hands.

* * *

In the aftermath of the opera incident, several of Scarface's deranged henchmen had been captured with only a few civilian casualties. Thankfully there had been no fatalities this time, but Bruce knew that it would not be long before the rivalry between the Penguin and Scarface claimed innocent lives. This fact gnawed at him with a sickening hunger, as did the fact that he still knew nothing of Cobb's operations or Scarface's identity. One's face was well known but his crimes were a mystery, and the other vice versa.

Cobb himself sat with Bruce in the theatre, watching the police and medics deal with the consequences of the unruly siege. He recognised SWAT commander Lt. Frank Branden issuing orders, but there was no sign of Gordon.

Cobb had been thanking Bruce for his assistance. "Needless to say, Wayne, you shall always be welcome at the Iceberg Lounge," Cobb said, his previous terror and rage seemingly evaporated.

Bruce simply nodded. He found it hard to accept thanks, knowing that Cobb was very likely already plotting his revenge. More bloodshed in his city. They had both already given their statements, so Cobb simply waddled off, berating his entourage for their incompetence.

Bruce was about to leave himself, when Commissioner Gordon and Lt. Bullock entered.

"Jesus, Branden!" Gordon said, his voice slightly raised in anger. "You think maybe there was a more tactical – and _tactful_ – way to go about this?" He gestured to the injured theatre-goers.

"Don't you dare take that sanctimonious tone with me, Commissioner!" Branden shouted back louder. "You said you got a tip-off from an 'anonymous source'. You don't think we all know what that means!"

Gordon realised that this was attention he did not need. "This is not the time or the place, Lieutenant!"

"Batman!" Branden shouted. "You got word from Batman about this little operation, didn't you?"

Bruce could see that the crowd was disturbed by this information, but Gordon held his ground.

"Lieutenant, you will stand down _right now_ and report back to Central."

"He's right, Commish," said Bullock, stepping over to Branden's side. Bruce knew that he was pandering to Branden in order to become their inside man, as they had planned "You wouldn't scramble SWAT for an anonymous source. This has the Bat written all over it." Branden nodded along with Bullock.

Gordon had clearly caught on to Bullock's act as well, but continued to defend himself. "These are serious insinuations, gentlemen, and I am not prepared–!"

"And just where is the Batman anyway?" said Bullock, gesturing theatrically across the room. "How do we know _he_ didn't set this whole thing up?"

"Exactly," said Branden. "Now, if you don't mind, _sir_, I will head back to Central to make my report. And I'll make sure Mayor Hill gets a copy."

With that, Branden exited along with Bullock, who had successfully attached himself to Branden's good side. Gordon stood alone, under the piercing gaze of the public.

Bruce felt a deep pity for his ally, knowing just how alone he was.

* * *

"Your jet will be ready for a flight to Chicago this evening, Master Wayne," Alfred reported while bringing Bruce his breakfast. His young employer and friend was already awake and deep in thought as he pored over police reports on the bed.

"Hm, good," Bruce muttered back.

Placing down the breakfast tray, Alfred carried on with the usual morning routine; opening the curtains and putting the local news station on the television at low volume.

"Just a round trip; flying back tomorrow morning," he said. "Sufficient gossip has been generated on the Internet, so you should have a reasonable alibi or two. However, I would recommend showing your face in at least one popular nightspot, just for appearances' sake. Of course, this does run the risk that you might actually enjoy yourself…"

"Last night was just the start," said Bruce, paying no attention to Alfred's harmless gibes. "Cobb tried to play the innocent, but I could see it in him: the need for revenge. This gang war is just beginning... And my only lead on Scarface – 'Matches Malone' – turned out to be fictional, so I'm still no closer to determining who he is."

"Hopefully your trip to Chicago will be more fruitful in that regard," said Alfred.

"I've hit a wall with Cobb too," said Bruce. "I thought I could simply intimidate him, but… Bullock was right: He's smart; knows how to protect himself.

"Zeiss is no ordinary bodyguard. He's only with Cobb when he's away from the public eye, which is precisely when I would be a threat to him. There's no record of him anywhere, even in the Iceberg Lounge's employment files, which are public record so it's no real surprise…

"I can't find any match on his description, or the fingerprints I took off my suit, in any police or FBI database."

"Is it really that inconceivable that Mr. Cobb would work with men of ill-repute, sir?"

"He's not some common hood, Alfred. He's had training – _proper_ training, and he's got incredible skill and speed… The fact that there's no criminal or civilian record for him anywhere just confirms my suspicion…"

Alfred slowly sat in the chair across from the bed. "And what suspicion would that be?"

Bruce looked gravely into Alfred's eyes. "Martial art is so-called for a reason: It is truly an _art_. Every fighting style is unique in its own way, and every practitioner of it has their own technique and mannerisms, their own flow and method.

"Each teacher is also unique – distinct. They each leave an unmistakeable signature on their pupils that remains even through adaptation and development…

"I saw, in Zeiss' movements, a familiar signature… I think he may be an ex-member of the League of Shadows…"

Alfred took a moment to fully comprehend the seriousness of what Bruce was saying. "An _ex_-member? Then you don't think–?"

"They've returned?" Bruce had also considered this. "No. If he were still in the League, he'd know that I am Batman and what I'm capable of. But when we fought in the Lounge, he was testing me; seeing what my strengths and limits are. I was unprepared – if he were still working with them, he'd have known that and killed me there and then."

"What is he then, sir?" asked Alfred. "A rouge member of some sort?"

Bruce nodded grimly. "Likely. I heard talk of former members who had broken off from the League to use their skills for profit or… worse."

"And you're definitely sure that this Zeiss was in the League of Shadows?"

"Either that, or he was trained by someone who was. There's no way to know for certain, but one thing's for sure: He can identify my style just as easily as I did his. He knows I'm ex-League too."

Suddenly, their severe conversation was cut off when Bruce noticed something on the TV. "Porter…?" he said, turning up the volume with the remote.

Distracted from their prior dialogue, Alfred too noticed that the new DA's name was on the screen.

_"HILL AND PORTER TO MAKE ANNOUNCEMENT,"_ it read. GCN reporter Mike Engel was on location at the steps of city hall.

"Is this something to do with her and the Mayor's grudge against Batman?" asked Alfred.

"I don't know," said Bruce, just as curious. "She mentioned something big last night, but I was obviously distracted before I could determine if it was something serious or not…"

On the television, Mayor Hill took to the podium in front of all the press, with Porter standing behind him and looking quite eager.

_"Ladies and gentlemen,"_ said Hill. _"As you know, I am dedicated to solving Gotham's crime problems once and for all. This will not be an easy task, nor a swift one, but there are certain elements making it more difficult than necessary._

_"To speak candidly; _Batman_ is the main problem facing us. He makes a mockery of the very laws that hold our society together. And he is not simply going to disappear, but rather grows bolder with each blind eye turned. Left unchecked, there is no telling what this menace is capable of._

_"That is why District Attorney Jane Porter and I have devised a revolutionary new idea for getting rid of the Batman once and for all. I'll let her explain it for you. Miss Porter?"_

Bruce and Alfred shared a somewhat worried look as Porter replaced Hill at the podium.

_"Thank you, Mr. Mayor,"_ she said. _"Too many times have the police relied upon the work of the vigilante known as Batman. Whether it is evidence gathered illegally or testimony acquired under duress, his methods matter not to some of those who supposedly enforce the law in this city._

_"His success or his intentions do not matter – Batman is a criminal and, like any criminal, will not be accommodated by the law any longer._

_"With the help of Mayor Hill, I have instated several new anti-vigilante laws to be put into effect immediately. I shan't go into the details, but put simply: No evidence or testimony in any way acquired by the Batman, or any other wanted vigilante, will be admissible in a Gotham City court of law."_

The reporters in the crowd began asking questions frantically, but Hill took the microphone from in front of Porter.

_"From this moment on,"_ he said,_ "the Batman is powerless in Gotham!"_

Alfred turned away from the screen to look at Bruce. "I'd call this serious, Master Wayne."

**NEXT CHAPTER: "Tip of the Iceberg"**


	3. Tip of the Iceberg

**CHAPTER THREE**

**"Tip of the Iceberg"**

Jim Gordon was not normally a man prone to anger, but recent trials in both his personal and professional life had given him a righteous indignation as he stormed into Mayor Hill's office.

"Why the hell didn't you tell me about this new law?" he demanded. He had been summoned by the Mayor himself, but Gordon's entrance carried no ceremony with it.

Branden and Porter were also present. Although unexpected, this was hardly surprising. It was Hill who spoke first. "Quite frankly, Jim, we didn't need to. Under city legislature, the Mayor and District Attorney can instigate any new local laws, so long as they are not contested by the city council, without necessarily consulting the Police Commissioner."

"Besides," said Porter, smugly, "I would have thought you'd approve."

Gordon stared at her accusingly, piercing through her façade of virtue. "Don't act like that little speech this morning wasn't meant to insinuate that you think I'm untrustworthy." He shot a look at Branden, knowing full well that he had told Hill and Porter all about his suspicions regarding Gordon's covert alliance with Batman.

Branden remained uncharacteristically silent.

"No-one's accusing you of anything, Jim," said Hill, and it almost sounded true. "But Frank has brought to my attention certain… incidents that warrant questioning…"

"Nobody is working harder to bring Batman in than me!" Gordon lied. He hated doing it, but knew how necessary it was. "He's a criminal and I'm a cop! It's as simple as that! But that doesn't mean he's not good at what he does. When he gives us information, I cannot ignore it."

"Of course, Jim, of course," said Hill, trying for sympathetic. "But the public are getting uncomfortable. All these months, and you're still no closer to catching the Batman; it raises eyebrows. With these new laws we're creating, Batman won't be able to use the police like his own private crime-fighting squad anymore…"

"That will just force him into more extreme measures!" Gordon said.

"Which is why we are going to have to take a few extreme measures of our own," said Hill.

"Like what?" asked Gordon.

Hill leaned back in his chair. "I'm temporarily demoting you to Captain."

"What!" If Gordon's temper had been restrained before, it was now fully unleashed. "You can't do that! You don't have the authority!"

"If you'll recall, Jim, it was the last mayor who promoted you. This job comes with that authority," said Hill. "Don't worry though; you'll be put back in charge of the MCU. You'll still be responsible for hunting Batman, but now you'll be following orders from the new Acting Commissioner."

Gordon suddenly felt his stomach roll over. His eyes drifted to Branden, who had a knowing grin on his face. "No!" he shouted. "Not Branden! He'll turn us into the goddamn Gestapo!"

"Think of it as a trial period," said Hill, almost oblivious to Gordon's outrage. "Just to see what the public thinks."

Gordon could not believe what he was hearing. "You can't run a police department like a business, Hill! It's not about public relations; it's about people's _lives_, for Christ's sake!"

"I can understand why you're upset, Jim," said Hill. "Take a day to cool off and I think you'll see that I've made the right decision."

Gordon gazed at Hill's relentlessly charming smile and knew he could not argue his case in this room. Branden's arrogance and Porter's impassiveness did not help.

"Nothing good will come of this," he said to the trio, before leaving to ponder his new fate.

With Gordon departed, Hill sighed. "Well, that was unpleasant."

"Long time coming though," said Branden.

"I think Gordon's intentions are just," said Porter. "It's his methods I doubt."

"Hm, yes," Hill muttered. Despite how encouraging he was of Porter in public, he did not pay much attention to her thoughts and opinions behind closed doors. He turned to Branden. "What were you saying before Gordon barged in, Frank?"

"Yes, sir," said Branden. "I know that, despite my advice, you insisted on making Gordon head of MCU…"

"Surveys have shown that a large percentage of the population still approves of him, Frank," said Hill.

Branden nodded, resentfully. "I figure we could still use someone to keep an eye on him. In case of any more Batman incidents."

"Good idea," said Hill. "Anyone in mind?"

"Lieutenant Harvey Bullock," said Branden. "I think we can trust him."

* * *

Ever since Batman had been forced to activate the Tumbler's self-destruct mechanism last year, he had been using the Bat-pod as his primary mode of transportation. While sacrificing the Tumbler's size and extensive gadgetry for speed and manoeuvrability, Bruce still felt the need for a more efficient vehicle. One that was as durable and versatile as the Tumbler, while also as fast and dynamic as the 'Pod.

To this end, he and Lucius created their 'secret project' at Wayne Enterprises – Advanced Automobile Beta One.

The Beta One, or "Batmobile" as Lucius had taken to calling it in private, was supposedly a new tactical multipurpose vehicle Wayne Enterprises was constructing independently, but with an eye for selling it to the military. The project was highly confidential, and anyone involved at any level of its construction had signed non-disclosure agreements.

With the completed prototype now in its final trial stages, Bruce had come to inspect his new toy in WayneTech's large test area.

"She's a beaut, ain't she?" Lucius said proudly as Bruce closely inspected the elegant lines of the Batmobile's dull grey chassis. While sleeker than the Tumbler had been, it looked just as sturdy; something that the Bat-pod lacked.

"It holds up to all the tests?" Bruce asked, running his hand lightly over the thick glass windshield. Although he appreciated the vehicle's visual qualities, he was more interested in its function.

"Like a dream," said Lucius. He walked around to the front of the Batmobile and pointed to its curving bodywork. "The industrial-strength steel cable launchers have a slight delay on their release, but it can easily be hammered out. And its jump doesn't have quite the same kick as the Tumbler did, but it makes up for it by being lighter."

"Well, at least now I can let Alfred in on it," said Bruce, still not taking his eyes off the efficiently beautiful machine. "He's the one person I don't often get to keep secrets from." He chuckled at his own juvenile humour, but would feel glad about finally lifting his butler's blindfold. "I can't wait to see this thing in action…"

"Have you given anymore thought as to how we'll avoid another Coleman Reese situation?" asked Lucius. This had been their biggest conundrum regarding the project. Even with the non-disclosure agreements, as soon as the Batmobile appeared on the news, someone would put two and two together, just as Reese had done.

Bruce nodded. "I'm gonna steal it."

"Come again?"

"Well, not me exactly. Batman.

"We stage a break-in," Bruce explained, "contact the authorities, and put the word out publicly that Wayne Enterprises is missing one tactical multipurpose vehicle, courtesy of the Dark Knight."

Lucius nodded, catching on to Bruce's plan. "That way, if it turns up on the news, everybody just assumes that Batman stole it."

Bruce grinned. "Precisely. We'll also make some minor aesthetic modifications in the Cave… For appearance's sake."

"Pretty smart, Mr. Wayne. Pretty smart."

"I'm not just a mask and a cape, y'know."

Leaving the Batmobile for now, both men headed toward the elevator, and their conversation turned to more serious matters. "I saw Mayor Hill's announcement this morning," Lucius said inside. "Looks like trouble for you."

"It will make things more difficult," said Bruce, his confident tone wavering almost imperceptibly. "Everything I touch will be tainted now; more so than before. No evidence or facts that I had a hand in gathering will be admissable in court, no matter how crucial to the case. I'll just have to be extra careful about covering my tracks.

"I'm more worried about what this will do to Gordon. Porter and Hill obviously created this new law because they don't trust him. Thankfully, we got Bullock on Branden's good side before all this. He's our inside man now."

"I've got a feeling you're gonna need him," said Lucius. "This doesn't feel over yet…"

Bruce stared silently forward, sharing Lucius' ominous prediction.

Once back on the Applied Sciences floor, the two men looked over some surveillance equipment that had been prepared.

"This is everything you requested for keeping an eye on Cobb," said Lucius, pointing out each item. "Tracking devices, listening bugs, decoders…"

Bruce sighed. "Getting past his conventional security isn't a problem, under the right circumstances. But with that bodyguard of his, I don't know if I'll even get a chance to use this stuff. If Zeiss is what I suspect, then he'll be paying special attention for me. I need a way to slip under his radar…

"What's this?" Bruce's train of thought was interrupted by something familiar. Some skin-like material lay on another lab table.

"Oh. That's some of the pseudoderm left over from… the Clayface incidents…" Lucius said. "I thought I might be able to do something useful with it…"

Lucius knew how traumatic those murders had been for Bruce. Actor Basil Karlo had used the artificial skin pseudoderm to create realistic disguises to aid in his mad spree. Knowing that one of Karlo's victims had been Bruce's lover Julie Madison made Lucius feel somewhat guilty that he kept such a grim memento lying around.

"Something good should come of those deaths," Bruce said, with a heavy tone. "Pretty smart, Mr. Fox. Pretty smart."

Lucius smiled, feeling vindicated by his young friend's approval. Bruce started to gather his new surveillance equipment together.

"Thanks for this anyway," he said. "Might still come in useful. I'll contact you about 'stealing' the Batmobile when I get back from Chicago and we'll work something out."

"You're back tomorrow?" asked Lucius.

Bruce nodded. "Hopefully, I get some answers about Scarface while I'm out there and I can put at least one problem to rest…"

* * *

"There will be _war_ in Gotham!" Cobb snarled. He pounded his round fist loudly into the thick oak table in the conference room, about which Thorne and Zucco were seated.

"But, Penguin," said Zucco, his voice a fearful whimper. "What about keeping things quiet?"

Cobb adjusted his expensive suit collar and, with considerable effort, returned to a calm state. "Scarface's attack on me cannot go unanswered. Besides, with this most convenient new judicial decree, our only serious threat – the Batman – has been neutralised completely.

"We are now guarded from him both physically," Cobb's tiny eyes drifted towards Zeiss, standing silently beside him, "and legally. No-one can stand in our way now! I will not rest until every crime, every injustice, every _evil_ in Gotham is done in my name! Our enemies will diminish and this city will know the rule of the Penguin! _This_ is Gotham's future!"

Thorne nodded appreciatively. "Sounds like we should be celebrating."

"Indeed, Mr. Thorne," said Cobb, smiling like a vulture. "We are now truly… _untouchable_… Nothing but victory awaits us. This calls for champagne." He pressed a button to summon Drake.

Zucco dabbed at his sweaty features. "Hey, where's Moxon? His men helped mine out with some work on the Mile and I need ta thank him."

"Most probably late," said Cobb dismissively. "Hm. I also needed to speak with him about adding a new level to the drug trade."

"A new level?" Thorne enquired.

"Something I tried in New York," Cobb explained. "We select a few of our more physically able addicts and offer them the product in exchange for services rather than money."

"Services?" said Zucco. "You mean, like help out on jobs?"

"Precisely," said Cobb. "Minor operations only, of course, but we would essentially be transforming our customers into employees at no extra cost."

Thorne could not hold back his grin. "See, Penguin, this is why we need a guy like you. You've got all these great ideas. Like hiring White as your accountant. He's got numbers jumping around all over the place, keeps the money moving, but everything looks legit."

"Well that's the thing about icebergs, Mr. Thorne: There's always more beneath the surface than meets the eye." Cobb chuckled at his own wit.

Drake entered the room, looking quite alarmed.

"Ah, Drake my boy!" said Cobb. "Fetch us all some champagne and glasses – not for Zeiss – and see what's keeping Mr. Moxon, would you?"

"Uh, sir?" said Drake. "That's what I need to talk to you about…"

Within minutes, Drake had led the four powerful men from the conference room to one of the walk-in freezers in the kitchen area. Lewis Moxon's body hung dead from a meat hook.

"This is a back-up freezer, so we only just found him," said Drake. "I thought you should see it for yourselves..."

There was a note pinned to the body, which Cobb now removed and read aloud. "'Dear Penguin: Sorry my boys had to leave early at the opera. Hope you like my make-up present. Sincerely, Mr. Scarface, the only boss in Gotham.'" He crumpled the note in his plump fingers and scowled intensely at the body.

"How did _this_ get in here?" he demanded of Drake.

Drake offered only a weak shrug. "Security says they didn't hear or see–"

"I KNOW DAMN WELL WHAT THEY _DIDN'T_ HEAR OR SEE!" Cobb screamed at Drake, his shortness overruled by his sheer volume. "I don't want to hear stories about _nothing_! Bring me facts about _something_! ANYTHING!"

With these clear and concise instructions, Drake hurried out of the freezer.

"This was the work of a traitor."

Cobb, Thorne and Zucco turned to look at Zeiss, who was examining the body closely through his reflective sunglasses.

"I beg your pardon?" said Cobb.

"A blow to the back of the head," said Zeiss, his voice colder than the freezer itself. "To strike the victim unconscious first. To minimise any potential difficulties, he was probably brought here, to the Iceberg, first and then knocked out. Moxon wasn't stupid or incautious, so it was most likely someone he knew well. Perhaps within his own ranks.

"The hooks were forced through the body and he was left to freeze overnight, his screams for help muffled by the heavy doors. This means that the killer wanted the victim to see his face before he died." If Zeiss derived any satisfaction from his deductions, he did not show it.

"This is a sign of things to come, Penguin," said Thorne ominously. "Scarface is prepared to get personal."

Cobb's face once again twisted into pure malice. "Then we shall simply have to return his kindness…"

* * *

Another storefront along Amusement Mile had been broken into and ransacked. Reading the report, Harvey Bullock knew that, since nothing had been stolen, this was likely the work of a protection racket. The store owners would never admit to it, but Bullock could tell.

Sat with his feet up on his desk in the Major Crimes Unit of Gotham Central, Bullock absently shook his head at the injustice, written in black and white, in his hands. While small-time mobster Tony Zucco was rumoured to operate rackets in that area, nothing could ever be held against him, and even Zucco was only suspected to lean on bars and nightclubs. This incident involved a kids' candy store.

Experience told Bullock precisely what had happened, without needing a shred of evidence. Zucco had grown bolder because of Cobb. This had the Penguin's mark all over it.

It wasn't an isolated incident either. All over the city, the crooks who had previously stuck to low-level crimes were slowly making their way up the hierarchy, leaving behind their fear, their simplicity, and their honour. What little decency they had before was gone now as they exchanged it for ruthless proficiency.

Bullock knew that Cobb was too smart to let any of it lead back to him. These crimes, though numerous and violent, would either go 'unsolved' or none of the perpetrators caught would even be aware of Cobb's involvement. Bullock had been through this one too many times in New York, and had once sworn to do anything it took to bring down the Penguin's empire of corruption. It was that attitude which had led him to be transferred to Gotham in the first place.

Bullock told himself that Cobb would not prosper in Gotham as he had in New York, no matter what the cost. Nothing would stand in Bullock's way this time.

Jim Gordon slowly walked into the MCU, his head hung low. "Can I have everyone's attention, please?" he announced.

Bullock could see that something unpleasant weighted on the Commissioner's mind as he and the other detectives gathered around their superior.

"You all know about this new 'anti-Batman' law they're putting into effect," said Gordon. Some of the detectives nodded approvingly. "Meaning we can't rely on tip-offs or evidence supplied by the Batman any longer. Nothing with even a hint of his influence can be used in the courtroom, at the risk of the whole trial being thrown out. It's all part of Mayor Hill's policy of coming down harder on crime…

"In accordance with this policy… I have been replaced as commissioner." There were several surprised and angry outbursts at this, but Gordon simply held up a hand to silence them.

"I've been demoted to captain and will serve as head of the MCU once again," Gordon continued. "I'm told this is only temporary, to see if my replacement can do a better job of bringing in the Batman…"

"Who is your replacement, sir?" asked Sergeant Stan Merkel, a younger officer, but loyal to Gordon.

Gordon paused and gave Bullock a blunt look.

"Don't say it," said Bullock, already knowing the answer.

"Frank Branden," Gordon said anyway.

"Goddamn it!" Bullock roared, kicking a swivel chair across the office floor. "As if we don't have enough crap to deal with!"

"Lieutenant," Gordon cautioned in a stern voice.

Bullock folded his arms and leaned back on a desk, quiet but no more content.

Gordon turned back to address the crowd. "I know some of you might support this change in leadership. It's no secret that many of you disagree with the way I run things. And since this may be my last chance to do so, I want to clear the air once and for all.

"Yes, I have relied on the Batman in order to solve certain cases. Both before and after I found out he was a killer. I have used information he provided, but I am not involved in any kind of covert alliance with him, no matter what schoolyard rumours you've heard." It was no less of a lie than those he had told before, but it was just as necessary.

"The Batman is as much a criminal as those he hunts, and I _will_ do everything in my power to bring him to justice, because that's what wearing a badge means to me!" He let this sink in. "But if any one of you wants to look me in the eye and tell me he hasn't been invaluable in bringing in some of this city's worst murders, drug dealers and rapists, when our best resources were worthless… then that's fine by me."

Gordon didn't even wait for a response, he simply ushered Bullock into the head office.

"Jesus… Branden…" said Bullock once behind the door.

"We're going to need you on his good side even more so now," said Gordon. "Whatever those three have got planned for Gotham, it can't be good…"

"You mean Hill and Porter too?" asked Bullock.

Gordon nodded. "Porter's sense of justice – of the law – seems to be in the right place, she's just… not lived in this city long enough to know that sometimes simply being _right_ isn't always sufficient…

"It's Hill that's the problem. He'll give Branden anything he wants, out of his blind need to satisfy voters…"

Bullock snorted. "Yeah, and Branden'll have a tank on every street corner, and all the jaywalkers locked up in Blackgate."

Gordon removed his glasses and rubbed his forehead wearily. Bullock knew how straining this was on the older man. Despite the life-threatening dangers he had endured – his very family abandoning him due to the risk involved – his professionalism was in doubt. If only the public knew what this man put himself through every day, only to go home to an empty house…

The phone on the desk rang, and Bullock looked to Gordon. "It's your office again, sir."

Gordon simply sighed. "I'll let you get this one, Bullock."

Bullock nodded in understanding and answered the phone. "MCU." He mouthed 'Branden' at Gordon. "Uh-huh… Yeah, I just heard… I guess so…" A longer pause now and Bullock shook his head in disgust. "I understand perfectly… Yeah, I agree…" Bullock promptly hung up.

"What did he want?" asked Gordon.

"Well, he definitely thinks I'm on his side. He wants me to keep a close eye on you, in case you go to the Bat."

Gordon raised his eyebrows. "I suppose this would make you a double agent now."

"Great. Like this job isn't hard enough for the regular cops."

Gordon looked out the window at the view of the city. Dusk was settling in and the shadows extending their reach. "I can help but wonder what _he'll_ make of all this." Bullock knew who Gordon was referring to: Batman.

"Ah, you know him," said Bullock. "He's always cheerful."

* * *

Sofia Falcone had always looked up to her father, even when she became old enough to understand what it was he did for a living. He was a powerful and intimidating man, but in Sofia's eyes he was a symbol of greatness. Of wisdom. Her younger brothers, Alberto and Mario, lacked the intelligence and the ambition to follow in Carmine's footsteps, and so he had doted on Sofia, seeing her as his only worthy successor.

Carmine's eventual fate burned the coals of rage deep within Sofia. To see someone once so respectable and feared reduced to a babbling madman brought her to a level of despair she had never known before. Luckily her father had told her how to deal with pain long ago: Turn it against your enemies. Sofia would avenge her father and make sure his name was feared once again in Gotham through his rightful heir.

When her father had been committed to Arkham, Sal Maroni had immediately taken his place and been readily accepted by those under him. The old men of her father's organisation were too traditional to even consider Sophia for leadership. But now, with Maroni and all of Gotham's other big-name bosses out of the picture, she seized her chance. Desperation ensured that her gender would no longer be a problem in her quest for dominance, but restoring Carmine's legacy would not be easy or swift. In order to rebuild an empire, she would ally herself with the likes of Scarface and endure his eccentricities and his schemes. For now.

"Awright, Scarface," said Sean Riley, "you didn't get Cobb, but you made up for it by wasting Moxon." Riley, Sofia and Bertinelli stood before the mysterious crime boss, still hiding himself in shadow, ready to pledge their loyalty and resources to him.

"That's still pretty impressive," said Bertinelli, trying to maintain his suave and aloof image, despite the obvious fact that they were all now subordinate to Scarface. "And putting him in the Iceberg Lounge is a stroke of genius."

Sofia grunted. Despite the necessities of this alliance, she was still strongly uncomfortable with Scarface's methods, but even she had to agree with Bertinelli. "How did you pull that off?" she asked.

_"Let's just say the Penguin ain't the only one who can hire squealers and backstabbers," _said Scarface from the darkness. He quickly changed the subject. _"You all swear _omertà _ta me now? On the names of your families?"_

"You've shown us what you can do," said Riley. He spread his hands in a friendly gesture. "My men are your men now."

Bertinelli grinned and nodded his allegiance. "This feels just like the old days again. Not afraid of nothing!"

Sofia stared into Scarface's shadow. "What about Cobb, Scarface?"

_"Don't you worry,"_ he replied. _"He'll get what's coming to him. Actually, it's kinda worked out better this way. Now he gets ta see me triumph over him, bring his whole operation down around him, before we pluck the Penguin once and for all!"_

Sofia knew that this was the only way forward. There was no point in stalling the inevitable. "I'm in."

_"Beautiful,"_ said Scarface. _"Now we can finally stop kidding around. We're a _cosca_ now – united as if by blood – and you are all my _capos_. With our combined assets, we can step up ta the big leagues…"_

"What did you have in mind?" asked Riley.

_"First of all, we'll move in on Moxon's territory. Since the Skeevers brothers bought it, their old drug runs have been split between me and the Penguin. Now I'm gonna take it all._

_"Before we get inta that though, I have a more important job for you and yer men, Riley. Or should I say, _my_ men,"_ said Scarface. They all knew that he was reminding them of who was in charge, but none of them risked saying anything for fear of losing their newfound status. Scarface was the hand that fed them, and none of them dared to bite.

_"It's down at the Tricorner Yards, moving some of my… product. I think once ya see what it is, you'll know just how serious I am about this war with the Penguin…"_

* * *

Chicago, Illinois is infamous the world over for its crime and corruption, forever associated with organized criminal groups and near-legendary gangsters, so to say that Doctor Norman Donnegan frequently worked late at the city's Breyfogle Institute was to raise either worry or suspicion.

Donnegan would be more deserving of the latter. He sat in his office with the lights out to avoid attention; the only dim illumination coming from his desktop computer screen as he played a mediocre game of online poker. His cell phone rang with an expected call.

Donnegan picked up the phone and turned away from his desk to peer warily out of the window. "You're late, Grant," was his abrupt answer into the phone.

_"What can I say, Doc? There's a lot of traffic 'round the Trump Tower 'cause Bruce Wayne's in town tonight. All the reporters and lookee-loos, y'know?"_ said his young contact. _"I'll be another fifteen minutes, tops. You got my stuff?"_

"It's here," said Donnegan, holding in his hand a bottle of mood-altering medication that Grant was most definitely not prescribed for. "You just hurry the hell up. I hate hanging around here at night." He ended the call and turned back to his game, only to discover that the screen was blank and the room now totally dark.

"What the–?" he muttered, before his head was suddenly forced down onto the desk and pinned there by a powerful hand. A masked face appeared next to his and in the grey light from the window, Donnegan instantly recognised it as the Gotham City Batman.

"Selling amphetamines to college kids, Doctor?" said the Batman. "I'm sure you wouldn't want the medical board to find out. Or the police."

At the back of his mind, Donnegan vaguely recalled mocking some colleagues once for discussing Batman, saying that he was just a lunatic in a Halloween costume whose exploits had been exaggerated by the media. With his face now pressed hard into his desk, he mentally recanted some of those comments.

"Please… Please," he gasped. "What do you want?"

"Last year, a man named Charles Frederick Daily, also known as Rhino, was arrested for armed robbery and assault, and sent here for treatment," said Batman. "You were his doctor. Tell me what you know about him."

"H-He was mildly schizophrenic and suffered from p-paranoid delusions," said Donnegan. Batman sometimes marvelled at the effect he had on memory. "He had no grasp on reality, no frame of reference or sense of judgement. Believed whatever you told him; that's why the gangs took him in so easily. They corrupted him at an early age."

"Why is there no record of him in your computers?" asked Batman.

"Our whole database was wiped the day he escaped," said Donnegan.

"How did he escape?"

"W-We don't know," said Donnegan. "Just found his room empty one morning. But… during his stay here, he became friends with another patient… Arnold Wesker… Wesker was here voluntarily, for his bipolar disorder. P-Prone to violent outbursts… Daily was locked away at night, but Wesker was free to roam the halls. A few days after Daily disappeared from his room, Wesker checked himself out, right in the middle of his treatment. Never saw either of them again…"

There was silence as Batman considered this new data. He knew that, while the Breyfogle Institute was equipped with a secure wing, it was hardly Arkham Asylum. It was a civilian facility, and Rhino had most likely been sent here due to overcrowding elsewhere. Someone who knew what they were doing could easily escape. Wesker most likely assisted in this aspect, but what part did he play in the grand scheme of things?

"Could Wesker have deleted the computer records?" Batman asked Donnegan.

"P-Probably," said Donnegan. "He was usually calm and quiet… Really smart though, and showed obsessive compulsive tendencies. If he wanted too, he could have learned everything he needed to know about computers in a day. And he loved to organise things down to the last detail, so I would not have been surprised to find out that he had planned Daily's breakout."

"Why?" asked Batman. "Why would he break Daily out? Where would they go?"

"That's just it! They both totally lacked any kind of ambition. Neither of them had any future, or any friends other than themselves. B-Best thing that ever happened to either of them was coming here."

Batman had uncovered a deeper mystery than he had previously suspected. He knew he would pull no more out of Dr. Donnegan regarding Rhino, but now at least he had another piece of the puzzle. Arnold Wesker. Only time would tell just how big this piece was.

"Do you still have hard copies of Daily's files?" Batman asked.

"Y-Yes," said Donnegan. "In my file cabinet." His eyes darted over to the corner.

"Don't move," Batman whispered in Donnegan's ear. He released the doctor, who remained perfectly still, and activated a small flashlight.

From the cabinet, he removed both Daily's and Wesker's files, just to be thorough. "I'll be borrowing these," he said to Donnegan.

He returned to stand over Donnegan's prone body, the glow from the flashlight making him look even more threatening. "I have a very low tolerance for doctors who abuse their position, Donnegan," he said, his deep voice sharp as a blade. "I'm not in Chicago often, but if I find out you're selling prescription drugs under the counter again, I _will_ make a very special appointment to see you. Understand?"

Wide-eyed and paralysed with terror, Donnegan frantically nodded.

Batman stood before the window, his back to the office. "Oh, and while you were on the phone, I donated all of your poker winnings to the Chicago Children's Charity. Hope you don't mind." With that, he switched off the flashlight and left Donnegan enveloped in the dark.

* * *

Lucius did not get to visit the Cave often, but on this occasion, with Bruce in Chicago for the night, Alfred had called his old friend over to keep him company and share details about the new Batmobile.

"Remote control, integrated computer system, emergency thrusters, terrain sensors," Lucius listed the advanced vehicle's attributes, displayed on the large computer screen in schematic form. "It's bullet-proof, shock-proof, fire-proof, you name it, it's got it."

"Goodness," said Alfred, genuinely impressed. "Is it insured?"

They both chuckled, and the computer signalled an incoming call on the private line. Alfred answered, "Good evening, Master Wayne. How is Chicago?"

_"I'm back in the hotel, just about to go out to a club,"_ said Bruce, with no joy whatsoever. _"I'll give you the full story later, but for now I need you to look up an Arnold Wesker."_

Alfred began searching on the computer. "On it. An associate of Mr. Rhino, sir?"

_"Yeah. Might have ties to Scarface too, but at the very least, he'll probably know where Rhino is."_

While they waited for the search, Alfred chatted on. "Mr. Fox is here, sir, and we were just discussing your 'secret project'."

"And Alfred tells me you're looking for a name for this computer," said Lucius.

_"Oh did he?"_ said Bruce dryly, knowing the game they were playing on him. _"Well, y'know if it could cook I'd just call it 'Alfred' and throw him out…"_

Alfred smiled thinly. "Your anonymous machine has found something, sir. There's an Arnold Wesker listed as renting an apartment on Electric Street. One of the more downtrodden areas of Tricorner."

_"Send the address to Gordon,"_ said Bruce. _"Tell him that it's a known accomplice of Rhino. He'll know what to do."_

"Very good, sir," said Alfred, already preparing the text message. "Now, you have a good time tonight, and try not too enjoy yourself too much, lest Gotham crumble and fall into the sea without you."

_"Don't worry, Alfred. I already can't wait to get back."_

* * *

The kid couldn't have been more than sixteen, but his eyes still looked up at Bullock with an all-knowing fear and dread at his last earthly sight. Bullock hated it when they died with their eyes open.

There had been a reported shooting in a neighbourhood in Burnley and two young kids had been found dead in an unused apartment. Neither of them had weapons on them though.

Sgt. Merkel stood behind him, reciting the first-on-scene report as several CSI technicians went about their dark business. "Neighbours saw two men in suits carrying a briefcase enter after the kids, then an old-fashioned car pulled up a few minutes later and several armed men in gangster outfits ran in and shot up the place. The two suited men exited at the rear, also shooting, and the gangsters left as quickly as they had arrived."

Bullock shook his head in disgust as he walked away from the far-too-young corpses. "You know what this is, don'tcha, Merkel?"

"Drug deal gone wrong," said Merkel. He had been a uniformed beat cop until last year when Jim Gordon had recognised potential within him and had him transferred to the MCU upon becoming commissioner. He had the gift for detective work. "Sounds like Scarface's men showed up to bust things up and these poor buyers got caught in the way."

"They weren't innocents," said Bullock, almost to himself, "but they didn't deserve…" He trailed off as he thought about all the undeserved fate lately.

"This used to be the Skeevers' territory," said Merkel. "Word on the street is that Moxon has been moving in on their game. Now, I guess Scarface is too.

"Course, 'word on the street' isn't what it used to be," Merkel lamented. "Before, the crooks and skells kept quiet because of money or fear.. But now it's like the left hand doesn't know what the right's doing, no matter how high you go."

"That's how he likes it," said Bullock.

"Who?"

"The Penguin. Oswald Cobb. He's the reason everybody's so quiet." Bullock wandered outside, Merkel in tow, and lit up a cigar. "Thinks of himself as a 'gentleman of crime'; treats it like an art or a business… Like it's something refined… But he knows what it really is. He knows all too well that what he's doing is evil… and he don't give a damn. Matter of fact, I think he loves it.

"There ain't a criminal left in Gotham on any rung of the ladder that don't work for either Penguin or Scarface now, whether they know it or not. And they ain't playing nice with each other… There's gonna be a war between the gangs and the freaks…"

"And all of Gotham in the middle…" said Merkel.

The glare from car headlights distracted both Bullock and Merkel, attracting their attention towards Jim Gordon's approaching sedan.

"I need to speak with you in private, Lieutenant," Gordon said upon exiting.

"I'll go check on the forensics team," Merkel excused himself.

Although Gordon reciprocated Merkel's trust, only Bullock and Gordon himself could know of their arrangement with Batman.

"_He_ sent me a message," Gordon said quietly to Bullock.

"The Bat?" said Bullock. "What he say?"

"He has the name of one of Rhino's old acquaintances; sent me all this stuff on my phone: Guy's name is Arnold Wesker, lives down in Tricorner, he and Rhino know each other from some mental institution in Chicago."

"Mental institution?" Bullock snorted. "Why am I not surprised? Think this Wesker can finger Rhino? Or maybe even Scarface?"

"Only one way to find out," said Gordon.

"You know Commandant Branden will hit the roof if he finds out Batman tipped us off?" said Bullock. "Not to mention that it wouldn't hold in court with this anti-Bat law."

"That's why it's an 'anonymous tip'," said Gordon. "And I didn't get it. _You_ did."

"Me?"

"Branden trusts you," Gordon explained. "If I say that _I_ got the tip…"

"He'll smell a bat," said Bullock. "Gotcha."

"And we'll do this as 'by-the-book' as possible," said Gordon. "We pull Wesker into Central and question him in the box; get everything on record."

"You sure about that?" said Bullock.

"With Porter coming down on us as well, we've got to walk the line as close as possible," said Gordon. "Now, get Merkel; we need all the help we can get."

Bullock nodded and stamped out his cigar. "Sure thing, Commish."

"It's just Captain now, Bullock."

Bullock shot Gordon a grin before heading back inside. "Not in my book, _Commish_."

* * *

As the three police detectives treaded softly down the hallway of the run-down apartment building, Gordon started to doubt if Arnold Wesker had any connections with Scarface at all. Surely someone in the employ of a successful crime lord would choose grander accommodation than the damp, decaying halfway house they now traversed.

"This it?" asked Bullock when they stopped in front of a red, paint-chipped door.

Gordon double-checked the address on his phone. "583 Albatross Apartments. This is it."

"Uh, sirs, I hate to say this," said Merkel, "but don't we need a warrant for this?"

Bullock and Gordon withdrew their sidearms. "Merkel," said Bullock, taking a step back from the door, "I'm wearing size nine warrants." He kicked the door in.

"Police!" shouted Gordon as he ran through the now-vacant doorway.

Bullock and Merkel followed and found a wiry, middle-aged man sat in his meagre and depressing apartment alone. He had a receding grey hairline and large eyeglasses. His bowtie and tartan suit jacket completed the image of someone decidedly non-threatening, even if his terrified expression did not. While Gordon kept a watch on him, his partners made a sweep of the apartment.

"Clean, Commish," said Bullock.

"Arnold Wesker?" said Gordon.

"Y-Yes," Wesker said, alarmed and panicked at the sudden intrusion. "What do you want?"

Gordon holstered his weapon and indicated for Bullock to do the same. "You're wanted for questioning in the connection with several crimes, Mr. Wesker," said Gordon. "We're going to have to ask you to come back to Central Station with us."

Wesker was shaking as they helped him up. "Oh, d-dear," he stuttered. "I haven't done anything wrong, I'm not a troublemaker, officers. Th-This is all a misunderstanding, I'm s-sure…"

He continued his nervous ramblings as Gordon led him out. Bullock went to check on Merkel in the bedroom. "Merkel, what's taking you so long? You find something?"

Merkel was chuckling to himself. "No, Lieutenant. But this little guy gave me a bit of a shock." He pointed to a ventriloquist's dummy sat in the corner. It wore a comically small pinstriped suit and fedora hat, but it's wooden features were worn with age and marked by a long scratch.

"What d'you think, Merkel?" Bullock asked. "Maybe we should bring him in for questioning too? As an accomplice, maybe?"

Merkel laughed. "Yeah, or maybe he's the brains of the whole outfit."

The two men laughed loudly as they turned their backs on the absurd puppet and left it alone in the dark and quiet room, staring lifelessly after them.

* * *

Arnold Wesker hardly seemed like the typical criminal. Sat across from Bullock and Merkel in the police interview room, constantly fidgeting and perspiring, he was a walking bundle of neuroses and had only just calmed down to a moderate pace.

"So you have not seen Charles Daily in about a year?" Merkel summarised from Wesker's answers, which had been excruciatingly pulled out of the nervous wreck of a man over the last hour.

"N-No," Wesker confirmed. He took another large gulp from the glass of water before him. "Not since back in Chicago. I-Is Rhino in trouble? He always seemed so nice."

"We believe he may be involved in a recent crime spree," said Bullock. They had been strategically withholding information, until they knew what Wesker knew, but Bullock saw no reason to continue.

"Oh dear," said Wesker with genuine dismay. "He's gone back to his old ways…"

"And you've definitely not heard anything from him?" asked Merkel. "No unusual phone calls? Messages in the mail? People following you? Anything like that?"

"I d-don't think so," said Wesker. "I didn't even know Rhino was in Gotham City."

"Seems like a big coincidence, don't it?" said Bullock, with a more suspicious tone. "You both leave that institute in Chicago about the same time, and now you're _both_ in Gotham?"

For an almost imperceptible second, Bullock thought he saw a glimmer of something in Wesker's eyes. A sinister look that rippled across his expression for just a moment, before returning to his regular passiveness. "I often discussed my plans to move to Gotham with Rhino, Lieutenant," said Wesker. "Maybe he's trying to find me. He was awfully attached to me, in his own way."

"And what is it that brings you to Gotham, Mr. Wesker?" asked Merkel.

"W-Well, at first it was work," said Wesker. "I'm on disability pay, you see, because my, um… condition makes it difficult to find a job. No-one wants to hire a bipolar employee. But I stupidly thought Gotham might be different, what with all the troubles you've had here…" Wesker hung his head pathetically, toying with a button on his jacket.

"If your bipolar disorder is such a problem, why didn't you finish your treatment at the Breyfogle Institute?" asked Merkel. It was a poignant question, and Bullock leaned forward for the answer.

"That's, um, the other reason I moved here," said Wesker, with an air of shame. "I have a lot of bad memories of Chicago… Plus, the doctors at the institute weren't helping. Not in the way I wanted…"

Bullock grudgingly left Merkel and Wesker in the interview room and went around to the observation room behind the two-way glass where Gordon waited.

"You think he's telling the truth?" Gordon asked.

Bullock shrugged. "He don't seem very tight-lipped. Keep him in their any longer, and he'll be telling us all his secrets. But I don't think he knows anything we can use, so we're gonna have to let him go. Might wanna keep an eye on him though; just in case Rhino does try and contact him."

Gordon sighed and rubbed his forehead. "Branden won't allow surveillance. Not with such a weak case."

"The Bat could do it," said Bullock. "Although if you want my opinion, Commish, we're wasting our time with this B.S."

Gordon looked at Bullock inquisitively. "What do you mean?"

"We should be focusing on the Penguin," said Bullock. Gordon rolled his eyes, but the Lieutenant continued. "Scarface don't care about lying low; he'll slip up sooner or later, but Cobb won't. We need to stop chasing these 'nowhere' leads with Scarface and start coming down harder on Cobb."

"I've got half the MCU looking into him, Bullock," said Gordon. "What more can I do?"

"Nothing will ever turn up on the surface, Commish," said Bullock. "We need search warrants, surveillance teams, undercover cops – more active measures…"

"Branden will never go for any of that," said Gordon. "Not without probable cause."

"To Hell with Branden!" said Bullock, his frustration finally overtaking him. "I _know_ Cobb! I know what he's planning! He's toying around with this mid-level shit but soon he'll step it up to the worst kinda crimes imaginable.

"Heavy-grade weapons deals, political extortion, human trafficking – I seen it all back in New York! And he's only gonna get further out of our reach, unless we do something _now_!"

"Not without more evidence, Lieutenant!" Gordon said, harsher now. He sighed, feeling the sudden weight of all his current burdens. "And I'm not just saying that because of Branden, or Porter, or Hill! Or even you! I'm saying that because I still believe in upholding the law! Even if others would use it for their own ends.

"We don't make a move on Cobb until we have something solid. That clear, Lieutenant?"

Bullock stood silently for a moment, knowing that Gordon would never see things his way. He did not know the torment that Oswald Cobb was capable of.

"Clear as ice, sir," he said finally. But the Penguin remained on his mind.

* * *

"Damn."

Bruce had returned from Chicago to inopportune news. Barely a foot out of the afternoon light, through the doors of the mansion, and he had asked Alfred for his messages. Gordon had informed him of Wesker's release and lack of useful information.

Distressed by this turn of events, Bruce bemoaned the situation to Alfred, as he strode purposefully into the manor's spacious study.

"Another dead end on Scarface," he said, seating himself behind the study's handsome mahogany desk. "And this new 'anti-Batman' law has Cobb protected from all sides now. I can't touch him within _or_ without the law." He sighed in exasperation and rested his head on his hand, with his elbow on the desktop.

"Maybe if I talk to Wesker as Batman…" he said, thinking aloud. "No; Gordon said he wasn't hiding anything, and I trust his judgement. There are innocent lives at stake and I can't waste any more time with dead ends." Bruce noticed that Alfred had been watching him with a nostalgic smirk on his face. "What?"

"Forgive me, sir," said Alfred, sitting down across from Bruce, "but you reminded me of your father just now."

Bruce's tense features softened. "My father?"

"Yes, sir," Alfred said. "After a particularly trying day at the hospital, he would often sit behind his desk and lament his woes and failures."

Bruce gave a sad smile and leaned back in his chair. "I should have been a surgeon, Alfred. It'd be a lot easier…"

"Perhaps, Master Wayne, rather than attempting to tackle all your demons at once, you should adopt a more… surgical approach."

"In what way?"

"Well, with Lieutenant Bullock so covertly operating as an inside man, had you not also considered the idea of infiltrating either Cobb's or Scarface's ranks?"

Bruce shook his head. "With Branden as Acting Commissioner, he'd never go for an undercover operation without strong evidence. And we can't get into Scarface's gang when we don't know anything about them."

"What about _you_, sir?" said Alfred. "You could go undercover without any bureaucratic approval, in Cobb's circle if not Scarface's."

Bruce sighed again, but it was more of a relaxed expression this time. "When I was preparing for my… 'one-man war on crime', I studied the various methods of criminology. Including the work of Jack Garcia…"

"The FBI agent?" said Alfred.

Bruce nodded. "Garcia practically wrote the book on modern undercover technique, and it's something I have thought about putting into use… But it takes time, Alfred. Garcia himself took years to bring down the crime family he infiltrated. Establishing credibility, working your way up the ranks, earning a reputation, and all without getting caught… Time I can't afford to waste…"

Alfred offered a worn shrug as compensation for his fruitless musing. "Just a shame this did not occur to us at an earlier date, sir. Then you'd have a ready-made criminal alias to step into…" His eyes drifted aimlessly out the window, but Bruce had sat up, alert, at those words.

"Probably for the best though, Master Wayne," said Alfred. "I mean, you do have a very recognisable face… Not exactly helpful in undercover work." He chuckled quietly to himself.

Bruce's mind was now racing as two stray thoughts collided like stones of flint, forming the spark that would ignite a flame.

He needed a pre-established, credible criminal identity.

He needed a convincing way to disguise his own appearance.

He knew exactly where to find both.

"Alfred, call Lucius," he started. "Tell him to bring over all the pseudoderm he has." Bruce rose and made for the concealed Cave entrance.

"Master Wayne?" asked Alfred, confused.

Bruce grinned. "Call me Matches, Alfred. Matches Malone…"

**NEXT CHAPTER: "Double-Talk"**


End file.
